Lateralus
by chossytoss
Summary: The sudden loss of Tony leaves Ziva and McGee in a painful struggle to find answers and keep each other from tearing themselves apart - and the sacrifice could cost them everything. Subtle Tiva, not in the usual way.
1. Burn

**Disclaimer: **Anything related to NCIS or that seems like it wouldn't belong to me, doesn't belong to me.

_Hey there...so this is the beginning of a new story, I guess. Just so you know, it takes place early enough in the current season (seven) but not too early. And I know it's short, but it was kind of necessary, so what can I say. Also two more things: First, this is **not **__a sequel to my other story in case you read that, for no other reason than it just doesn't really work that way. Second, speaking of my other story, I might be replacing some of those chapters with more recently edited ones, and I'm not sure if that shows up on alerts or whatever, but my apologies in advance because it's not really that important lol. Okay anyway, sorry for rambling. Please continue..._

* * *

"What?" asked an indignant Tony, swallowing an impossibly large bite of pizza and putting on a look of feigned innocence. His companion, who had stopped eating to watch him with a look of amused disapproval, raised her eyebrows.

"It is a miracle you have slept with so many women, Tony," replied Ziva, shaking her head at the fact that he had already taken another bite before he had even finished chewing the first one. He chuckled, sending a little smirk her way, falling into their practiced and comfortable routine.

"Trust me, I don't think there's anything supernatural about it," he scoffed, knowing what he was implying and loving it. Apparently his partner did too, because she let out a small laugh of her own.

"Anyway," he continued, getting up from his seat at the counter and heading towards the cabinets, looking for some glasses. "Chicks dig a guy who knows how to relax. Got any wine glasses around here?" he asked, already having opened and closed several cabinets and not finding what he was looking for. It had been some time since he'd last been in Ziva's apartment like this. Maybe too much time.

He turned around to face her, expecting some guidance, but instead he found her staring at him with that mischievous spark in her eye. She already had two glasses, and the bottle of wine, sitting in the middle of the counter.

"Oh," he said lamely, frowning half-heartedly. "I hate it when you do that."

Ziva smiled, satisfied with that. In truth, she was satisfied with a lot of things at the moment.

The past week at work had been long and difficult, a fact attributed to a stressful case involving a missing child and a jurisdiction battle with the FBI, two things that were equally bad on their own and made that much worse when put together. There had been a lot of yelling, a lot of tension, and a lot of work to be done. But thankfully, here they were, hours after solving the case, enjoying a little well-earned relaxing. It had been Tony's idea to get together after work, and Ziva's idea to come here - she had her doubts about Tony's apartment being clean enough.

She was brought out of her thoughts by Tony clearing his throat, fiddling with the edges of glass as he was about to speak.

"So," he began, looking at her with a serious expression, but his eyes still playful. "Ready to hear my story?"

This _story_, which he had been babbling about earlier in the day but didn't have time to tell, was partly the reason Tony had wanted to hang out after work. So he said. Ziva raised her hands, palms upturned, encouraging him to continue with a slightly mocking smile. He noticed, but chose to ignore it. He was used to such things.

Just as he was about to start talking again, his cell phone rang, sending loud vibrations over the countertop.

"Perfect timing," he muttered darkly, glaring at nothing in annoyance and reaching for his belt to unclip his phone. He just flipped open he receiver, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"DiNozzo," he stated, his tone more professional than it had been two seconds before. "Ah hey McGoo. Not calling to apologize for ditching us, are you?" he joked, glancing at Ziva out of habit. She held the same expression he did.

Then Tony's amiable features changed completely.

"You're kidding," he said lowly, returning to seriousness. "Yeah yeah, alright. I get it. No don't bother, she's sitting right next to me."

Ziva frowned to herself, already drawing conclusions about where this was going. A few seconds of silence passed in which they both waited expectantly.

"Yeah, see you there in twenty," said Tony smoothly, closing his phone shut and putting it back on the counter, sighing. "Guess our week isn't over yet."

"A case?" asked Ziva, figuring she already knew the answer. How very typical.

Tony nodded, rising from his seat and grabbing his coat.

"Yeah. Dead Petty Officer just turned up outside a bar downtown. And ding-ding-ding, we're the only team on call this weekend," he finished sarcastically, heading towards the door. There was something unusually serious about his disappointment, something other than work having disturbed his plans. It was foreboding and accepting at the same time, and for some reason it made Ziva freeze for a second, studying him.

He turned back to her with a lightly curious look on his face, any trace of whatever had passed over him a second before, disappeared.

"Gibbs won't kill me if I bring that pizza with me, will he?"

He didn't wait for her to answer before swiping the entire box from the counter, ignoring her look of protest as he impulsively cut into her line of motion to grab it. She erased any doubts she had about whatever strange mood he was in, and continued out the door, which he was holding open widely with his characteristic juvenile grin. She rolled her eyes at him.

"Better watch it David or I'll save my story for Mr. Gemcity, and we all know what happens when he gets ideas in his head," he scolded, letting the door shut behind him and following her to the end of the hallway.

She ignored him. He laughed in spite of himself, amused and secretly proud that he was irritating her enough so that she was intentionally trying to leave him behind on the stairs. Well, at least the night hadn't been a complete failure. Any time, although it was interrupted, was better than none. It _had _been a long week...

Ziva stepped outside into the late summer air, enjoying the warm radiance that seemed to hang over the area. It was inviting and had a certain powerful calmness to it, making the fact that they were cutting their weekend ridiculously short just a little bit better. She breathed it in briefly, waiting for her partner, still on the stairs, to catch up to her.

"Ready?" he asked rhetorically, his voice a little softer than usual. She just smiled softly, nodding.

They walked forward on the sidewalk, heading towards the car parked on the curb. It wasn't long before Tony was playfully leaning on Ziva's shoulder, eyes lit up with humor.

"So what do you think McGee was doing before we were called in? Or should I say who?"

Ziva snorted, eyes narrowed but lacking any real anger at his sudden closeness.

"Is that all you think about?"

"Ohh I don't know, he's been taking some personal calls lately."

"Yes well that does not necessarily m--"

But she was immediately cut off, the sound of harsh footsteps and a threateningly shadowed figure approaching.

"DiNozzo!" someone yelled, his voice echoing sounds of determination and agression. The two of them immediately turned around at the sudden interruption, startled and confused.

Time did not stop, the world was not ending, but the loud _crack_ of three gunshots pierced the night with the force of something that cannot be measured. There was the low thud of a body crumpling to the ground, followed swiftly by an impossible silence.

Ziva, whose tuned instincts had reacted instantly to the threat of danger, rose from her slightly crouched defensive position with her weapon drawn, eyes wide and heart racing. She was staring down the black barrel of a gun, pointed directly at her heart.

The shooter's face was covered by the dark fabric of a ski mask, the only feature visible the flickering heat of his irises. His hand was steady, radiating control and power. Burning. Ziva kept her own weapon held loosely by her side, unable to do anything but stare at the man before her. There was a tense silence as if anticipatory but already completed, causing her stomach to clench and the inside of her palms to begin sweating.

Then suddenly, he dropped his hand.

She stood rooted to the spot, watching with the deep eyes of a wounded child as he spun around and ran, sprinting away from the terrible mess he had just made, not looking back. He disappeared around a corner, leaving only a stilled silence in his wake. She hesitated for only a moment, exhaling and running a tired hand over the thin layer of sweat on her forehead. She turned quickly, and her weapon clattered to the ground.

Anthony DiNozzo lay still on the concrete, eyes closed with the ghost of a smile and the dark crimson of fresh blood seeping towards her feet.

He was dead.

* * *

_Ooh shocker! Anyway, thank you so much for reading! Like most people, I always always appreciate reviews, so leave one if you like! Stay tuned :)_


	2. Everything

**Disclaimer: **NCIS not mine. I caveman.

_Okay, I know this isn't exactly a happy story, but have a little faith okay? Also, I'm using a really really shitty computer at a hotel, so you're damn lucky I'm updating lol. Anyway, continue on my fine friends :)_

* * *

For the first time in a very long time, Special Agent LJ Gibbs hesitated.

The whole street was blocked off, lined with bright yellow police tape and guards ensuring the privacy of the crime scene. But there were no eagerly vigilant specatators behind the lines, save for the handful of neighbors who called it in upon hearing gunshots. Luckily, they were mostly blocked from view by the two large NCIS vans parked next to several towncars from Metro PD that were waiting and watching, siren lights flashing and illuminating the darkened pavement with dull shades of red and blue. People flitted in and out of the area, just doing what they came here to do.

On another night, in another world, it could have been serene.

Gibbs just observed silently as he stood by the car, leaning on the still open door.

"McGee," he called, his voice quiet and firm. He didn't bother turning his head to address his junior agent.

There was no _yes Boss?_ or _I'm on it _or anything of that nature. The younger man raised his head, brow furrowed, but his eyes holding something that was strangely blank. His backpack was slung awkwardly over his shoulder.

"Witness statements," he commanded while moving from his spot and slamming the car door shut. He didn't wait for a response, and he didn't even notice that there wasn't one to be had anyway.

He approached Ducky with no expression on his face, no indication that there was anything going through his mind. When he reached the sidewalk and found the friendly medical examiner, he stopped.

You would never know it by looking. He was stoic, reserved. He was a man who played everything close to the chest, and thought very little of it. He was a man who chased and interrogated criminals, brushed with death every other week, and lost family and friends to a job he took so seriously. An emotional wall, a rock. But here, now, he felt like none of those things.

_Stunned_ could never cover it. There are no words to describe what happens when you see what you know is the body of your agent being lifted onto the gurney. How do you describe the endless black of a body bag, zipped closed but open to holding your deepest regrets, your darkest thoughts? How do you describe the dark crimson stain that taints more than just the concrete? How do you describe the eternal sadness in the eyes of a man who can talk about anything and everything, suddenly silent at the task before him?

Naturally, the colors should stir something up. The red and blue of the lights, the gray of the concrete, the black of the body bag. Light and dark, or life and death. No, he thinks, frowning. Just death.

Palmer solemnly loads the gurney in the back of the van, eyes downcast and no goofy smile etched on his face. Gibbs meets the eye of Ducky, and they share a look that means so very much and so very little at the same time.

"I am _so _sorry, Jethro."

A nod, a reflexive look around, seeing nothing. The rock stands.

"Time of death?"

Ducky sighs, fiddling with his glasses.

"About forty-five minutes ago."

He nods again, checking his watch out of habit. He turns back to his friend in front of him, pushing back the sudden wave of dread he felt. Before he can open his mouth to ask the next question, Ducky reads his body language and readily provides the answer.

"Over there," he says lowly, pointing to an ambulance parked at the other edge of the street. He offers a quick _thanks_ and heads over to the car, which seems to be about the only emergency vehicle whose lights aren't flashing. His walk is slow but full of purpose. Sad and strong.

When he approaches the back of the bus, he signals with a light jab of the thumb for the paramedics to give him a minute. They retreat to somewhere else, leaving just him and the woman sitting there, shadowed eyes glued to the ground. The blanket she had been given lay next to her, ignored and unused.

"Ziva," he started, taking a moment to really look at her.

Her hair is in a messy bun, having been thrown back hastily in the haze of confusion following the arrival of response teams. There is blood all over the front of her shirt, sticking to her arms and chest in small unpatterned patches. Some of it is smeared on her face from her hands, which are not yet completely dried with the crusted maroon of dried blood - she either does not notice or just doesn't care. Either way, it cannot take away from the dark brown of her eyes, which seem smaller than usual and are lined with the tight red that accompanied whatever tears may have been shed. There is shame and confusion in it, more noticeable than anything else.

Plain and simple, she looks lost. And she doesn't look up when he calls her name.

"Hey," he tries again, softening his tone and shifting a little closer into her line of vision. This time, she lifts her head.

She gazes at him briefly, and he has no idea what she is thinking.

"I was right there," she said suddenly, her voice thick and so clearly holding something back. Gibbs craned his neck with the little characteristic bounce in his step, trying to figure her out. She sighs heavily, bowing her head and putting her hands behind her neck as an involuntary sign of defeat.

Her words were low and almost unreadable, working to mask her pain. Small lines of tears run down her face, but her expression remains empty and the same. He can count the number of times he has seen her cry with _half_ a hand, and without a doubt he knows that the woman he sees in front of him is nowhere near being ready to talk. But she'd never tell him otherwise. Instead, he gently grips her elbow and encourages her to stand.

"Come on," he says gently, pushing her lightly. She doesn't ask where they're going, and she doesn't shake him off.

He leads her towards the car slowly, still lightly holding onto her. When they cross in front of the stain on the concrete and the open doors of the autopsy van, she retracts from his grip and practically falls to her knees, retching. She coughs a little and breathes heavily when she's finished. Tears are falling more freely now, and it takes until Gibbs shuts the passenger side door next to her for her to realize she isn't on the pavement anymore.

A part of her wonders why she wishes she was, and a part of her already knows the answer.

_Tony_.

She closes her eyes, and Gibbs drives off without a word.

* * *

Hours later, McGee stands hunched before a brown wooden door, fist clenched and prepared to knock but unable to do it just yet.

The things around him seem foggy, blurred. It is a swirling, floating notion of a wooden doorframe, a small golden number, and an empty hallway. There are a few cracks in the ceiling and gravelly flecks of dirt are under his shoes, but the solid ground does nothing to calm his wavering instability. With no apparent trigger, no real reason, he feels a squeezing pressure and his throat constricts against his will. He is surprised that he doesn't feel it as much as he should.

He raises his hand, which feels like lead, and knocks on the door. He is strangely detached from his repetition of the hollowed action.

When the woman opens the door brightly, her face falls as she takes in the sight of her visitor, slumped, defeated, and soft eyes watering.

"Timmy?" asks Abby, opening the door a little wider.

Abby, who doesn't know yet. Abby, so full of life and flair and all things happy. Abby, who is supposed to seek _him _out for comfort.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

He takes a step forward, closer to her. He needs to be closer. She grips his arm tightly, looking for some sort of answer. In one word, one whispered and wounded word, he tells her. He breathes it out, lets it sink in, and it just doesn't feel right on his tongue. How _could _it?

She makes a wild noise, somewhere between a gasp and a scream, and her hands fly to cover her mouth. She immediately pulls him closer and embraces him eagerly, letting her own tears of shock fall into his shoulder. His mind is blank, his eyes and face are wet, and his heart aches.

In the end, he can't tell who is clinging to who.

* * *

In the home of their leader, miles away, Gibbs sits idly on a stool in his basement.

Ziva was sleeping upstairs, tired limbs sprawled out on the couch. She was right where Gibbs left her, having refused any food or the offer to clean up and still wearing the clothes she arrived in. She wasn't snoring, but she wasn't tossing and turning either. Just sleeping - nothing peaceful or troubled about it. So here he was, retreated into the dull warmth of his basement, breathing in the musky scent of sawdust and whiskey.

To his left, a dusty mug rests on the wooden workbench, a small bottle of reddish-brown bourbon lying right next to it. He takes a small sip, realizing with a strange clarity of mind that its sedative effect is doing little to erase the thoughts in his head. To his right, a half-finished boat glares at him. He picks up a sanding block, tosses it around lightly in his hands, but he can't bring himself to get up and start working. He doesn't.

Tonight, there are no questions. No _why_, no _how did this happen?_ On the most basic level he thinks like a soldier, a cop, an investigator, but tonight he can't think like that. The words don't come and the questions don't form and he doesn't ponder the answers. The gut remains untouched, still. No demands, no action. No mourning or grieving or crying or yelling or searching or driving or fighting or anything. There is no anything.

Tonight, it just hurts.

Heated, thick, and sharp. The sensation is nothing new, and yet somehow it is. It's the feeling of a loss that cannot be recovered, and the full capacity of it that he knows hasn't quite hit him yet. The knife is plunged in, and with it comes the shock, the anger and denial, and the thought of being betrayed somehow. But later, when the smoke clears and the dust gets swept off, the knife is pulled out. And he will be left with guilt, a void, and the biting emptiness of feeling alone beyond reason.

Which is worse, he does not care. At the end of the day it's all the same. Pain. When he rises from his seat and stares at his boat, he can think only of the family he is forced to lose, again and again. Just like that, they are gone.

Suddenly his muscles tense and the heat rises in his veins and he slams his foot down on the wooden frame of the boat, snapping the piece in two. He continues to kick forcefully until that whole section is destroyed, not caring about the noise or shattered wood chips and not giving a shit because he hates on the deepest, most raw level that the thing is sitting unfinished, untouched, and unmoving. Always the same thing, and for what?

Upstairs, Ziva does not stir, unaware that her mentor is just as lost as she is.

He practically slams the sanding block down and reaches for his mug of bourbon, relishing the slight burn it gives as it slides down his throat. Tonight, he does not want the comfort of his basement.

* * *

_So yes, he really is dead :( Thanks for reading and reviews welcome!_


	3. Poison

**Disclaimer:** NCIS or anything clearly belonging to it is not mine.

_Hey there. Nothing new to report here, so enjoy the story :)_

* * *

The lab was dull and quiet, the only real noise being the soft humming of machines and computers whirring away.

Special Agent Gibbs hovered in the doorway, frowning and thinking silently to himself. There was no music, which was to be expected, but somehow made the situation seem all the more real. There was also no life, which was a feeling much harder to place. It was as if something heavy and still was hanging over the air, creating tension but calming in its own way.

He crept forward, taking care not to make his entrance too loud or his features too hardened. When he approaches the young woman standing in front of her computer, shoulders hunched and arms crossed, she jumps a little.

She gazes at him with that dampened, defeated look that makes him hate his job. The tired, _I have nothing left_ look.

"What do you got for me Abs?" he asks quietly, his voice low and lacking the authority it usually holds.

She brings up a screen with a few quick clicks of the mouse before turning to get something from the back of the lab, not saying anything as she did so. He waits patiently, watching her.

When she returns, she is holding three small plastic jars, each with a shattered bullet inside.

"These are the slugs Ducky pulled from the body," she said lowly, not looking at him as she set the jars down on the lab table.

It did not escape his notice that she didn't say his name. He picks up one of the jars and holds it towards the light above his head, scrutinizing it.

"Each one was a 40 caliber hollow-point with a lead core and copper jacket. It's the kind of bullet any John Doe can get a hold of, so I won't be able to identify a specific gun until you find me one," she says lowly, so clearly lacking her usual bounce.

"That all you find?"

She shakes her head, turning around to pull up a screen mapping some sort of trace elements out.

"It looks like the shooter tried to coat them in polytetrafluoroethylene, but the amount was so small that he may as well have not even applied it."

"Poly-what?"

"Polytetrafluoroethylene," she replied quickly, pointing it out on the screen. "Otherwise known as Teflon."

"Teflon," he deadpans, looking closer, but eyes appearing unseeing. "As in armor-piercing rounds."

She nods, no change in her expression.

"But anyone trained with firearms would know it would be ineffective. A half-jacketed bullet with a soft core is still gonna mushroom, even if this guy _did_ use the right amount of coating."

"So we're dealing with an amateur."

But somehow that didn't sit right.

Maybe he was an amateur, maybe not. The shooter's apparent lack of knowledge with regards to details about ammunition meant he was no professional, but the fact that he made it a point to try and use armor-piercing rounds meant he was damn serious about having DiNozzo dead. Bottom line, the guy was not to be dismissed.

She stiffens her posture, looking confrontational. There is a world of hurt lined into her face, and it wounds him to know it's something he cannot fix.

"No that's not true! If he was an amateur he would've missed!"

"He was six feet away Abs," he replies, keeping his voice neutral.

"That doesn't matter…they should've realized he was there! Ziva should have done something...or something. She just stood there and let him get away!"

He hoped he could chalk up that hostility to shock and the desperate feeling of mourning, and that what was left of his team wasn't really tearing itself apart.

"Abby…"

"No don't tell me it's gonna be okay. Why does this keep happening? Why is it always us?" she cries out, throwing herself at him and sniffling back her tears, now running softly down her face.

He sighs, expressionless eyes held forward.

"I don't know," he whispers to her, kissing her cheek lightly.

And he meant it. Eventually he just stopped asking that question, because he felt he knew all along. Why us? No. Why anybody? Sometimes it works out, and sometimes there is no answer.

"I miss him Gibbs," she says throatily, her voice thick with tears and a deep sadness unable to be suppressed.

He wraps his arms around her tighter, not bothering to utter the _me too_ that would seem so appropriate. But it doesn't fit for him right now, and the words seem hollow, so he pushes it down and pulls away, still gripping her shoulder gently.

"Let me know if you find anything else."

She nods briefly, trying to pull herself back together. He retreats to the exit, not looking back as he strides with his silent strength to the elevator that waits to send him where he wants to be. Where he _has_ to be.

And as she turns back to work she does not think of Caf-Pow or pigtails or blasting music or tattoos. She tries not to think about him, or his body laying in autopsy (which she refuses to see), or the slugs on the table behind her.

For some strange reason, she thinks of a glowing blue hospital room and a terrible disease and two of her best friends.

But she does not smile.

* * *

McGee looks up eagerly as he hears the ding of the elevator, simultaneously feeling nervous and curious at the same time. He stops typing on his computer, craning his neck a little to see above it clearly.

But when he notices that it's Gibbs making his way into the bullpen, cup of coffee in hand, his face falls a tiny bit, and he sits back in his chair. Apparently his reaction was more noticeable than he thought.

"Expecting someone, McGee?"

He lets out a small breath, frowning a little bit and tilting his neck as if weighing his options.

"I know it's kind of a rough time right now, but I couldn't exactly help but notice…Ziva's _really_ late."

Gibbs nods, unfazed.

"I gave her the morning off. Should be here around noon."

At least, that's what he told her in the note he left her. Because when he came downstairs and saw her, _her, _the perpetually early riser, sprawled half on the sofa and half on the floor still sleeping soundly, he decided not to wake her.

The younger agent raises his eyebrows, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach. Nothing good ever came out of situations like this.

"Boss, it's two o'clock. She's two hours late…"

Gibbs drops the files he was holding onto his already cluttered desk, lifting his watch up and squinting to read it without his glasses. He nods, as if he had just figured something out that he should have realized earlier.

"Stay here and try calling her. I need to use the head," he says vaguely, heading off to the bathroom without waiting for a response from the man across the bullpen.

McGee picks up his cell phone and dials the familiar number, praying she answers. Things were bad enough already…

So he calls.

And calls.

And calls again. He leaves a voicemail on both of her phones, trying his best to sound unconcerned and responsible. Not at all like he felt. Out of habit he glances around the bullpen, but it only serves as a grim reminder as to why no one is there.

By this time, his boss has returned from the men's room, strolling over to his desk and perfectly embodying the man on the mission image. McGee doesn't have time to wonder if that was intentional or not.

He looks at his junior agent expectantly, eyebrows raised and demanding some sort of answer. But with a small shake of the head and an accompanying frown, it is clear that there is none to be had.

"Alright," says Gibbs, sighing. "Trace her cell."

Nod, pull up the keyboard. Obey. Do what you have to do, because all the sudden a _fucked up_ situation has the threatening possibility of getting worse.

"On it," he replies, voice solemn but strong.

There is the sound of keys being pressed, and a couple people walk by, but other than that it is just silence. He thinks that there seems to be too much of that lately.

"Looks like her signal's coming from the corner of 41st and Maple. Maybe she's getting coffee or something."

Gibbs narrows his eyes, looking skeptical.

"Or…not."

He had temporarily forgotten how Gibbs felt about these kind of things.

"Go pick her up," he says firmly, but a little quieter than usual. He tosses the keys to McGee in a flurry of silver and clinking metal, and he catches them while he grabs his coat.

Saw that one coming.

"Call me when you're on your way back."

"Yes Boss."

He heads to the elevator without another word, ignoring the sensation of being glared at coming from the two desks on his left and right.

Two _empty_ desks.

* * *

About twenty minutes after leaving NCIS headquarters and sitting in traffic that really seems unnecessary for this time of day, McGee pulls up to the side of the curb, examining the area.

Oh no.

Parked two spots in front of him is a local police cruiser with red and blue lights flashing, with an officer waiting outside the passenger-side door, standing guard. McGee feels his stomach tighten as he quickly slams the door to the Charger and approaches the man, jaw hardened as he flashes his ID.

"Special Agent McGee, I'm with NCIS. What's the problem?"

The man turns, frowns at the badge, and answers with a tone of casualness and indifference that seriously isn't putting him in McGee's favor.

"Barfight," he says, indicating the building right in front of him with a nod of the head. "Owner called it in a couple minutes ago, and we were in the area. I was hoping we wouldn't have to deal with this kinda shit until _after _lunch, but hey...that's the job I guess. Got a sailor in there or somethin'?"

"Yeah you could say that," he replied, ignoring whatever else the guy was mumbling about and heading into the bar. For some reason he was past the point of hoping Ziva was actually in the movie-rental store next door.

He quickly makes his way to the scene of the commotion, pushing bystanders (some of them way too happy to be watching) out of the way and simultaneously scanning the rest of the bar for his colleague. There were a couple of college-aged kids too busy enjoying themselves to notice a disturbance, a middle-aged couple making out in the back (really?), and a surly looking man sitting alone at the counter, but other than that the rest of the patrons had cleared out to watch whatever was going on. But no sign of Ziva.

When he finally spots her, he curses under his breath and aggressively makes his way to the center of action.

She is being held on the ground by a seriously pissed off guy, his muscular arm pressed firmly across her stomach and pinning her down. His other arm was raised in the air, fist balled and ready to strike. He brings it down with no hesitation, pounding the side of her face with a dull smack. She keeps her own arms resting on the floor on either side of her body, unmoving. Not fighting back.

McGee rushes forward, but not before the other responding officers can beat him to it. And not before the guy can throw a few more erratic punches to her face.

The one officer rams his shoulder into the guy doing the hitting, effectively throwing him onto the floor. Within a few seconds he is pinned down by another officer, shouting as his hands are forcefully brought behind his back. The first officer roughly heaves Ziva to her feet, bringing his own cuffs out as he twisted her hand around to her back.

"Hey wait!" yells McGee, making his presence known and pulling out his ID again. "Agent McGee, NCIS. What's going on?"

Ziva turns her head at him in surprise, eyes low but engaged. There is a red mark on her cheek close to her swollen lip, and her nose is bleeding freely. The two officers glance at each other and nod, nudging the male suspect to get him to speak. He is panting and glaring at everyone.

"I noticed her at the bar alone so I went over there but she started to leave before I got a chance. I just pulled on her arm to talk and the bitch pulls a knife on me! What the hell was I supposed to do?"

McGee frowned, glancing from Ziva to the other guy. She didn't meet his eyes this time.

"Witness says he threw the first punch," added the officer, speaking lowly to McGee. "We're taking them both in."

McGee clears his throat, mind spinning with action.

"You know what Officer..."

"Reynolds," the man supplies, sounding confident and defensive at the same time.

"Right. Officer Reynolds. She's gonna be coming with me," he says while indicating Ziva, doing his best to sound authoritative. The man shifts, and judging from the short grimace on her face, he tightened his hold on Ziva.

"And why's that?"

"She's a suspect in an ongoing investigation."

"Oh yeah? What investigation?"

McGee moves a step closer, looking annoyed.

"Look buddy, I don't have time for this okay? Double homicide trumps whatever charges you can dish out, so just cut this guy loose and fine him or something, but let me do my job, alright?"

The man took a step back, hands raised in submission.

"Whatever you say, sir. You can have her."

McGee takes Ziva by the arm, not bothering to uncuff her so as to keep up the image of professional arresting suspect, and not friend saving other friend by lying out of his ass.

"Thanks," he mutters lowly to the officers, pushing his way through some of the people still watching eagerly.

They don't say a word to each other as they get in the car, avoiding eye contact even as McGee releases her from the handcuffs. He shoots her a concerned glance, to which she does not respond. He takes out his cell phone as he pulls away from his parking spot, heading back to HQ.

The person he was calling picks up within a few seconds.

"Yeah, hey Boss. I have Ziva. Should we head back?"

Wait.

"Uh, she stepped in to stop something going down in the street. I'll fill you in later."

Wait again. Pretend there isn't a stifling amount of tension in the car.

"Okay. See you in twenty."

He put his phone back down on the console, stealing another glance at the person next to him.

"Gibbs says Vance wants to see you when we get back," he says lightly, turning back to the road.

A few charged minutes, in which he does his very best to keep his focus on driving, pass before she says anything in return.

"You lied to Gibbs," she states, her tone unfinished and darker than he'd expected.

This time, it is McGee's turn to not respond. Why? He wasn't entirely sure, but he thinks he would do it again if the need arose. Strange how in under 48 hours, things like that change completely.

He is still thinking about this as he pulls into the Navy Yard, the guard at the gate having waved him on without stopping him. He kills the engine after pulling into a spot, but remains in the car and lets out a low sigh.

"You don't have to do this to yourself you know. Tony wouldn't want you to," he says, his eyes and voice meaningful. It feels strange and unreal speaking about it like that, but there is no doubt in his sincerity. The person he is talking to barely looks at him as she answers, one hand on the door handle.

"He is dead, McGee. I no longer know what he wants."

"Ziva..."

But she stops him before he can start.

"Thanks for the ride," she replies, sending him a quick nod and opening the door, walking away from him. He knows she probably feels a million different things bouncing around inside her, but the mask on her face is so completely strong that any attempt at breaking it would be futile. Ziva David, always the warrior, always ready. That's the game she plays, and he watches her go without stopping her.

McGee just feels left behind.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you want and make the best of your weekend :)_


	4. Break

**Disclaimer: **NCIS or anything directly related to it does not belong to me.

_On an unrelated note, I just wanted to say that I miss Tony's longer-ish hair from earlier this season. It made me happy ;) Continue reading, and try to enjoy both this and the beautiful weather (well, it's beautiful here at least). Gracias!_

* * *

In the hallway just outside her destination, she waited.

It was only a matter of seconds before the secretary, intentionally oblivious and professional, gave her the go-ahead, allowing her to proceed. She approached the steel-colored doors quietly, her feet seeming to be moving of their own accord.

The handle made a small clicking noise as she turned it, opening it just enough so that she could slide in and shut it behind her. It made the same noise when it closed, and the action of it suddenly filled her with a tense, dread-induced feeling in her stomach.

There were two men in the room, one of whom glanced at the other in question at the woman's appearance and cleared his throat.

"Agent David," started Director Vance, motioning her towards the conference table and pretending not to notice the painful-looking evidence of someone doing a number on her face – at least she'd washed the blood off.

Ziva instinctively pulled out a chair next to Gibbs, who was already sitting and gazing at Vance with feigned patience.

"Now, I know the rulebook says I can't do this, but for certain situations…" trailed Vance, picking up a bottle from the display shelf on the wall and reaching for some glasses. Gibbs remained impassive, unattached.

"Got work to do, Leon," he replied with a hint of resentment that would be impossible to notice unless one was looking for it.

Vance stopped, turned, and studied them. He put the bottle down, knowing it had been pointless from the start.

"Guess I'll cut right to the chase then."

Gibbs nodded the sarcastically encouraging nod, the one he saves when Director and Agent must play their little game.

"I'm taking David off the case."

Ziva immediately lifted her gaze, brow furrowed in confusion. She glanced to her mentor for the shortest of seconds, ignoring the dull pain she felt in her face and head when doing so. She has definitely seen that piercing, knowing look on his face before, and it never turns out very well.

Hold up.

"What?" she asked, opting for a simple, expressive word rather than a polite and professional response. Her partner was dead and she had just narrowly avoided arrest less than an hour ago – she was past polite and professional.

"You're on a two-week leave starting tomorrow. You'll be paid as if on a regular vacation."

Gibbs shifted in his seat, losing more of his stoic composure as the seconds passed.

"A vacation," he deadpanned, meeting Vance in the eye with the quiet _are you kidding me_ tone.

"That a problem Agent Gibbs?"

"Oh, yeah…yeah, that's a problem," he replied quietly, smirking a false smirk and radiating underlying irritation. Vance raised his eyebrows and kept his features schooled, as if daring Gibbs to go further.

He did.

"One of my agents is dead and now I'm down another and you're not giving me any reason!"

"Oh I got plenty of reason. You wanna challenge my decision you go ahead and ask your agent about it yourself," he commanded, pointing a steady finger at Ziva, who said nothing in response.

There was a charged silence, in which everyone studied each other and no one said anything. Vance, seeing the necessity, broke the silence with the same authoritative tone he had been using before.

"Right now, she's more of a liability than an asset. And I'm sure as hell not taking any chances, not on this one," he stated strongly, referring to the gravity of the investigation into Tony's death.

Ziva couldn't decide if she was more pissed about being taken off the case or about Vance speaking about her as if she wasn't there.

"A liability?" asked Ziva, a soft incredulity to her voice. Something boiled beneath the surface. Oh, it was there, and it was churning, and all it took was one wrong step and something would break.

Vance ignored her and turned to Gibbs, who was glaring at him.

"Do you know where your agent was before she showed up here?"

"In the squadroom doing what she was hired to do!"

An imposing head shake stops him before he can go further.

"Don't get cute with me Gibbs."

He turns to the woman sitting tightly, holding back whatever she was hiding.

"I don't know where you were just now, and quite honestly, I don't want to know. But I sure as hell don't believe whatever crapshoot story McGee came up with."

He paused, letting his words hang.

"Now neither of us can do our jobs if your team isn't under control," he directed at Gibbs, ignoring the rising tension in the room.

"Yeah? And how am I supposed to do that when you take away my people?"

"I know you don't wanna hear this. But either she takes the two weeks, or I suspend her."

The woman in question narrowed her eyes, but kept herself calm. Heart and head steady, waiting, close to hating.

Gibbs, not so much. He looked like he was ready to hit something, and he was having trouble remaining behind the hardened mask he had created for himself upon first entering the room.

"Is that understood?" asked Vance, glancing from agent to agent.

The silver-haired man waited, held his breath for a steeled moment, and released it, feeling fire in his veins.

"Understood, _Director_."

Vance ignored the blatant hostility lined in the response and nodded to the door, dismissing them. Ziva practically bolted out of the room, avoiding eye contact as she exited and not stopping to wait for her boss. Gibbs rose slowly from his chair, having a silent stare-down with the man across from him.

The man who always seemed to push agendas like this at the _worst_ times.

Just as he pulled open the door and makes to leave, Vance's voice from behind stopped him.

"You think I made the wrong decision."

It isn't a question, and Gibbs remained rooted to the spot, and did not turn around. Wait.

"Or maybe you think I made the right decision, and that's what's bothering you."

There is no response, and the lead agent lingered for a moment before striding away without a word. He headed to the elevator at the end of the hallway, brooding and feeling the tense anticipation and determination tingling in his fingers.

The only _right decision_ being made is the one to find out why his senior field agent is lying cold in autopsy.

* * *

A cold chill ran through the room, and Timothy McGee felt his muscles tighten at the feel of it. Autopsy was always a little cooler than any of the other parts of the building, given the nature of the room, but he still wasn't completely used to it.

But then, maybe he was feeling the cold for an entirely different reason.

Pretty much all of the room was dark, lights left off out of his strange desire to keep it that way. The only lights on were the dim ones right above the freezers, where he was currently hovering.

Surprisingly, he didn't feel much as he pulled open the correct drawer, save for the soft vibrations of the metallic sliding sound as the drawer extended to reveal its contents.

It was strange, looking at Tony like this. Where there should have been a smirk or a stupid joke brightening up his eyes (eyes that were not those of the juvenile asshole he portrayed), there was only the solemnity of pale stillness.

Eyes closed, permanently. Permanently.

Shit.

His job is supposed to prepare him for this. Dismiss it as common knowledge, but it's always there. Not everyone can survive everything everyday. They even teach you about it in FLETC, to prepare you for the inevitable. _Preparation_. But no one is ever prepared to lose somebody.

They tell you that too, but no one thinks about it until it's too late.

_Come on Timmy, I thought you were a Boy Scout!_

Truth?

He wasn't there when a bullet tore through Kate's head. He wasn't there to witness Cassidy's last act of heroism. He wasn't there to find the body of Director Shepard bleeding out in some old diner. He wasn't there to see the look on Ziva's face when they left her behind, possibly forever.

And he wasn't there when someone pumped three slugs into one of his most trusted friends.

"McGee?"

He hadn't heard the doors slide open.

"What are you doing down here?" asked Gibbs, neither soft nor harsh. He approached the younger agent quietly, but not without purpose. A man on a mission, surely, but also a man who just knows.

McGee shifted on his feet, frowning to himself a bit.

"I don't know, I thought it might be easier if I…." he let the last part of his sentence fade, not really catching up with his thoughts until they were about to leave his mouth.

If he came down to see him? So dumb, and yet so true.

Gibbs said nothing in response, but took a moment to look at the body for himself. His face held nothing. McGee spoke up again, his voice a little rougher than usual.

"I just can't stop thinking about it, you know?"

Still nothing from the Boss, who seemed to be waiting for something.

"I can't help but wonder, if I'd been there mayb—"

A slap to the back of the head interrupted him.

Gibbs was right in his face, and McGee could only stare at him with confusion and a hurt that wasn't necessarily directed at the man before him.

"You're a damn good agent Tim, and so was he," he stated fiercely, jabbing a finger in DiNozzo's direction.

McGee didn't look convinced, and he didn't even know what Gibbs was trying to convince him of.

"Now you can either sit here and kick yourself, or you can find the bastard who did this and take him down."

He hesitated for a moment, knowing what his boss wanted him to say, then stopped.

"Wait, do you know who he is?"

Nothing except for a small flicker, untraceable.

"Right, we wouldn't be having this conversation if you did."

Gibbs nodded, quickly pulling the white sheet back over Tony's body and slamming the door shut, as if keeping it open any longer might suddenly change his mind or cause some sort of forbidden delay.

"Let's go McGee. We got a lot of work to do and we're a man down," said Gibbs, heading towards the doors without waiting for the man behind him.

The junior field agent, who had been taking a last look at the drawer that had just been shut, turned his sharp glance towards Gibbs.

"What about Ziva?"

"One day. After that Vance is sending her home."

By this time McGee had caught up with Gibbs, so he lowered his voice as they waited for the elevator.

"What? Why?"

"Some political bullshit. He's covering his ass."

"Is she okay?"

"She can take care of herself. You coming?" he asked impatiently, waiting for McGee, who had temporarily frozen at the news, to step inside the elevator.

"Yeah," he mumbled in return, mostly to himself. He tried to keep his mind from wandering as the doors closed and the car started moving, but it didn't work very well. The absence of one agent suddenly felt like two, and it was deeply unsettling.

He was still trying to sort it out in his head when they got out of the elevator to return to work. But he was suddenly brought out of it as he almost ran into Gibbs, who had been walking ahead of him.

Ziva's desk was empty except for her shield and gun, lying untouched in the middle.

No note or anything. She was already gone.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Reviews always welcome :) Adios!_


	5. Epiphany

**Disclaimer: **NCIS is not mine. Thanks.

_Uh so for anyone who cares about college basketball, my bracket is tanked. I shredded it. Now no one can make fun of me for losing, terribly. Thought you should know. Excuse my rambles, and read on :)_

* * *

For what it was worth, Tony's apartment was clean.

Not ridiculously messy, with crap strewn everywhere and boxes of pizza overflowing the trash and dirty dishes that seemed to be weeks old. Because, really, that would just be too cliché. And not ridiculously clean, with spotless and clutter-less floors and counters that define the antithesis to Tony's character. Because that was cliché in its own way, too. Just…normal.

Somehow, that made it harder. And Ziva wasn't even supposed to be here in the first place.

Since her involuntary _leave of absence_ began (she frowned at the thought), this was the only thing she found herself able to concentrate on. Not only was it productive, very much needed, and slightly pathetic that she would be expected to compliantly _not_ do this, but it was the only way she had of dealing with everything that had happened in the past few days.

Find him. She will find him. And she was certain the killer was a him.

After that, she hadn't given it much thought. A professional _femme fatale_ with a chip on her shoulder and a steady trigger finger does not require much thinking anyways.

So, here she was. Searching. Searching for something, anything that would help her.

The living room was pretty much empty. A couple of choice photographs hung on the walls, which surprisingly pulled no heartstrings – she just kept moving. There was a can of soda and a few too many DVDs on the floor, but other than that it was just a room.

Just a room. A part of her finds it necessary to tell herself that, because it is not so easy to remain detached when you keep hearing echoing shouts of _DiNozzo! _and gunshots.

She moved onto his bedroom, feeling suddenly apprehensive. Being in his apartment like this, as an investigator, a grieving friend, it was just different. She'd been to his place too many times to count but somehow now, it felt foreign to her. It was wrong.

She found nothing substantial around or under his bed, and nothing in his nightstand except for some random items like condoms (or not so random), pens, chapstick, etc. His bureau contained only clothes, some of which she doubted he actually washed. She was half-expecting to find a secret stash of GSM or even better, a journal, but no such luck.

Until she got to his closet.

True to his jovial-playboy image, his closet was full of male designer clothes and shoes, which she took only a second to admire. Ziva was more interested in the cardboard box resting on the floor, looking a little worn but sturdy enough to hold whatever was inside.

She pulled it out from the corner and dropped to her knees, checking it out.

The first object she took out was an NCIS cap, navy blue and just as official-looking as the ones they were required to wear now. She fingered the material in her hands for a moment, turning it over and trying to figure out what was so special about it. And then, right there on the lining, the word _Todd_ was scribbled in black permanent marker.

So it belonged to Kate. Question answered.

Ziva set the hat gently on the floor, feeling as if she was impinging on something personal.

The next object was small and bronze, and apparently just as unimportant as the hat had been at first look. She picked up the key-ring and brought it closer, examining it. It seemed ordinary enough, but it was oddly reminiscent of the key to her old apartment in Silver Spring. She _had _given him a spare several years ago, but why would Tony keep that?

She set it down next to the cap, putting it out of her mind.

The next things were in their own smaller box, but it was surprisingly light. She furrowed her brow for a moment, confused, because this was definitely not what she was expecting.

Inside the box were several encased medals, looking untouched and somehow untouchable, as if opening them would somehow ruin them. And since when did Tony have medals of his own? He never said anything about it, which was strange enough in itself…

The small box soon joined the other things on the floor, and Ziva paused for a moment, trying to work through the sensation of intangible warmth in her hands and stomach she felt after finding the medals. She knew she had just touched on the part of Tony that was empathetic and self-sacrificing.

The part that did his best to pick up where Gibbs left off and the part that fell in love and tried to protect Jeanne Benoit. The part that led him to a desert in Somalia to avenge what he thought was her death.

There were a few other items in the box, things that she couldn't identify and were most likely memorabilia from his college years. The only other real thing that caught her eye was a stack of photographs, several inches thick. More than just a little curious, she picked them up.

Some were recent (random crime scene "candids" that should've been deleted), some were stupid (somewhat blurry images of drunken frat brothers), and some were meaningful (groups of old friends, places he visited…).

But there was only one, apparently the only one of its kind, that Ziva really took the time to study.

In the center of the picture was a playful-looking husky, blue eyes gleaming and pink tongue hanging out as if panting. Next to the dog, small arms wrapped around it, was a young Tony, maybe about nine or ten. His light brown hair was sticking up all over the place, and his boyish smile seemed to radiate off the paper. To the left of the two of them was a beautiful woman, still young herself. Ziva could see the resemblance, with the same green eyes and attractive look of knowing something you didn't. She seemed to be glancing at her son right as the picture was taken, her face not fully facing center.

On the back of the picture was written a single word, right in the middle. _Mom_.

They looked genuinely happy, and Ziva felt a connection to it that she could not explain. Perhaps it was the simplicity of it, or perhaps it was not simple at all.

She quickly put the scattered objects back in the box, not bothering to arrange them perfectly or even close the box back up. Whenever Gibbs and crew arrived to search the place, they would be sure to find it anyway.

The only thing she kept was the one picture, tucking it inside one of her jacket pockets. She had no real reason why.

She left the bedroom after a quick sweep of the adjoining bathroom, heading to the kitchen. She had already begun to start internally giving up on her search, but it was not in her nature to leave something like this unfinished, so she headed into the small space, looking around.

Nothing in the dish cabinets, nothing hiding behind the boxes of Lucky Charms and Captain Crunch, nothing in the pull-out drawers. There was also nothing under the sink or in the dishwasher, and nothing stashed in his spice cabinet.

She was about to stop looking when the surface of the refrigerator caught her attention.

There were a few colored sticky-notes, with little messages about laundry, heating bills, and the like. A list of phone numbers hung below that, most of them female, with the exception of take-out restaurants. And then one other number, which didn't seem to fit in with anything else.

Dr. Alexandra Taylor. A psychiatrist maybe?

Her business card, clipped to the paper, confirmed this initial reaction. With a slight lurch of the stomach, Ziva realized thathis calendar was marked with an appointment twice each week.

She had no idea Tony was seeing a therapist. And since it was not the doctor that liaised with NCIS, that meant it was voluntary. But why?

She felt a rush of excitement now, taking out her cell phone and dialing the number. This had every sign of being _exactly_ what she was looking for.

The phone picked up after the second ring, revealing the polite voice of a woman who Ziva assumed to be Dr. Taylor.

Ziva only had to fight a little to keep her voice level and even.

"This is Special Agent Ziva David. I work for NCIS."

There was a brief pause, in which the woman considered this, letting out a small breath.

_What can I do for NCIS?_

"I need to know if Anthony DiNozzo was one of your patients."

No hesitation this time. Could this woman sense her urgency?

_For several weeks now, why?_

"He is…was…my partner and he's involved in a serious investigation. And I think you can help me."

_I'll try and do what I can, but I can't tell you much without breaking privilege. Exactly what investigation is Tony involved in?_

Silence. Ziva feels herself stiffen, pushing it out of her mind.

"His murder."

* * *

Back at the office, McGee sits looking frustrated.

"What do you got?"

After hours, _hours_, of this, it was all still the same. He searched, he pulled up records and old case files, he made phone calls, he left messages, he checked in with former COs. He perused and studied and speculated and identified and eliminated and just _tried_.

Anyone that had ever made a threat against DiNozzo since the last time it was necessary to check up on his enemy list (what, three times in the last five years?)…well, they were either dead, in prison, or thousands of miles away.

With all of that, all that time, the search came up empty.

"I looked through everything Boss. There's nothing."

And they were right back to where they started. Tony was dead and they were no closer to finding his killer.

They had nothing. _Fuck_.

* * *

_Thanks for reading friends! Leave a review and enjoy the rest of your weekend :)_


	6. Push

**Disclaimer: **NCIS is still not mine.

_Hello again :) Happy approaching spring everyone! Well, at least for everyone who actually is approaching spring...wooo!_

* * *

Ziva sat with her elbows resting on her knees, hands folded together loosely, waiting.

The room she was in was small, comfortable enough, and a little warm. Now, whether that was intentional or not, she did not know. But in this moment, the only thing that mattered, the thing that seemed to seize her and grab at her, was talking to Dr. Taylor.

A few stifled minutes of silence passed before a door opened somewhere down the hallway, and a woman approached, smiling slightly. Ziva instinctively rose from her chair when she saw her coming, brown eyes calm and compliant.

"Alexandra Taylor," said the woman politely, extending a hand. "It's nice to meet you in person, Agent David."

Ziva returned the handshake, trying to put on a small smile of her own.

"Please, you can call me Ziva."

Dr. Taylor nodded, then placed a guiding hand on her guest's shoulder, pointing to the door.

"Why don't we go outside so we can talk?" she suggested, leading the way.

The slight wind made the air a little cooler than expected, but Ziva found she preferred it to the somewhat intoxicating closeness of the building inside. Out here, it was harder to remember she was meeting with someone who was trained to read her more than she was comfortable with.

They took seats on one of the stone benches in the small courtyard, admiring the freshness of the scene for a moment before getting down to it.

"So, Ziva. What is it you need from me?"

The woman in question cleared her throat slightly, brushing some hair behind her head as she did so. This was hard. Harder than she ever thought it would be.

"I need answers. About Tony's death."

Dr. Taylor looked as if she already knew this, so she just nodded and waited for Ziva to continue.

"Why was he seeing you?"

A small moment of uncomfortable shifting passed, but it was not something she hadn't entirely expected.

"You know I can't repeat what's been told to me in conf—"

"I do not need to know the details. I just want to know why."

Dr. Taylor sighed, looking around the courtyard without really seeing, considering.

"Tony contacted me sometime over a month ago, and he told me he needed to work through some things."

"What kind of things?"

It was easier this way, falling into investigative mode, when the only thing that matters is the truth and the best way to get at it. Not about who, or him, but about everything else.

"There were some changes in his life he needed help adjusting to."

Wait a second.

"Changes?"

She nodded.

"At work, with his social life, that kind of thing."

She studied Dr. Taylor, piercing her with a look of curiosity and desperation. A look of question. Does this woman see a losing fighter with tattered clothes, a frozen heart, and _Ziva, can you fight?_

Could this woman possibly know? But oh, she did not ask.

"Did he mention anything unusual recently?"

"A lot of what Tony said was unusual…"

A quick laugh, a short smile, but it stopped almost as quickly as it had come. For the sudden twisting of the knot of restless anger tied in her stomach, she had no explanation.

Dr. Taylor, who obviously knew what was really asked, put on a look of deep concentration as she racked her brains for any sign that something was wrong.

"A couple days ago he _did_ talk about something other than what we normally do…"

Ziva couldn't decide if the increase in her heart rate was natural or not. The woman next to her stole a glance at her, and took her level of keen interest as a sign to keep going.

"Apparently he was getting food or something one night and noticed a drug deal going down and stepped in to stop it."

"Why?"

"I don't know exactly, he just told me it was his job to stop crime wh—"

"No, no. Why did he tell you about it? What made it so unusual?"

She knew she sounded impatient, but she felt as if she were just steps away from the edge and just about to stand over it…something about this "drug deal" didn't sit very well. Could this have been the story he had been so excited to tell her about?

"It was the people involved. Most professional looking addicts he'd ever seen, I think is what he said."

"Professional how?"

"He didn't say. He kind of shut off after that."

Ziva stayed silent for a while, trying to process everything that had just been revealed. Which, actually, wasn't that much, but there was something about the whole thing that put her on edge. Tony did have a thing for talking about himself, but why should something like a drug deal (she was having her doubts now) bother him so much?

Then, after a moment, Dr. Taylor spoke again. Her voice was softer, sadder than before.

"You said Tony was murdered?"

Breathe out.

"Yes."

Maybe it was the way Ziva had responded, with a sort of harsh acceptance, or maybe it was the way she was sitting too still to be comfortable. She didn't know, but something in her answer gave her away.

"You were there?"

She was met with a pointed gaze in response, the only answer she knew she could get right now.

"I'm so sorry. He…he was a good man."

Ziva rose from the seat, nodding with a forced smile at the doctor's words. It would be impossible to express what the loss had meant, did mean for her.

"Thank you for meeting me."

"Oh, not a problem," she replied, rising to her feet as well. "If there's anything else you need, just give me a call, okay?"

Another small, silent smile. Let it pass.

Ziva was about to go when she suddenly stopped, and turned back around again.

"Actually, there is one thing you can do."

Dr. Taylor looked a little surprised, but shrugged her shoulders.

"Sure, what is it?"

"When my colleagues contact you…I was never here."

The other woman hesitated for a second, glancing from Ziva's bare hip to the unreadable expression on her face.

"You're off-duty."

Ziva opened her mouth for a second, closed it, then opened it again, trying to explain. Is there even an explanation? A true expression of the impossible to define and even harder to feel? Not for anybody, and certainly not for her. Not now.

"Tony was my partner…"

But Dr. Taylor put up a hand to stop her, seeing the struggle.

"I know it must be hard. You have my number, Ziva."

Wait, nod, look as if you're completely focused, completely there. She did not stop to think about why it was she had to remind herself to do these things.

And when she left, she had no idea what she was feeling.

* * *

"Look _señora_, I don't have the authority to do that, okay?"

"No no. Listen to what I'm _saying_. It does not matter what level of authority you have. I work for NCIS, a _federal agency_! That means you do what I tell you to do, yes?"

She seriously did not have the patience for this kind of thing.

"Yeah? I've never even heard of NCIS. How do I know you're not going to rob me blind the second I turn my back?"

"I do not want your money! I want to see those tapes. And you can either let me do that, or I will force you. Understood?"

"Is that a threat?" the store manager asked roughly, still looking absolutely and annoyingly unfazed by the intimidating woman in front of him.

"Yes," replied Ziva coolly, staring at him with dark stabbing eyes that dared to be challenged. "I would not take that chance if I were you."

The man was silent for a moment, sizing her up. He adjusted his cap after a moment and scratched his beard, chuckling to himself.

"Huh, honey, maybe I should. Tapes are in back. Be my guest."

"Thank you," she snapped, moving past him quickly to the backroom and ignoring his eyes following her as she went.

She shot the manager, who had decided to hover in the doorway, one last warning glance before pulling out the slightly run-down chair and sitting down in front of the small screens mounted on the counter.

It wasn't long before she was scrolling through the footage archives, despite her surprise that such a random, insignificant bodega would actually have a digital archive for their security footage.

Four nights ago. Four nights ago.

This was harder than she expected, on more than one level. It would have been easier, on an equal number of levels, if McGee were helping her, but given the circumstances, that was not an option. And somehow she felt as if it would be wrong to drag him into this, whatever _this_ was exactly.

No.

It was better that she was doing this alone.

Back at Tony's apartment, she had sifted through a pile of receipts when she went through the kitchen, and it wasn't until Dr. Taylor had mentioned Tony getting food that she thought to check up on any of them. The only recent receipt for takeout had been to this small store, and with any luck, maybe Tony's interaction with the supposed drug-dealers would be on camera.

But a long time had passed since she trusted anything to luck.

She ignored the dull tension running through her body as she found the file she was looking for, pulling herself into focus and eyeing the screen intently.

With a quick leap of excitement, she spotted on-screen Tony exiting the store, large white bag of food in hand. He checked the relatively empty street for crossing cars before stepping out onto the pavement, heading to what she assumed would be his Mustang, which was not in the visible frame.

He suddenly stopped in the middle of his path, turning his attention to some activity taking place on the other side of the street, several yards away from Tony.

Three men were standing close together outside a dark sedan, which looked like it was deliberately parked away from the streetlamp. One of them, Ziva guessed without much effort, was some sort of thug, and given the area, was most likely Hispanic.

His hood was half-hanging off his head, revealing some indecipherable tattoos and a menacing face. His pants were low enough so that only a small part of his high-top sneakers were showing. The only indication that he was not as hood as he appeared to be were the two people he was with.

Both were wearing suits, and from what was visible here, pretty nice ones at that. One of them was talking to the _matón_ intently, and the other was constantly checking his surroundings, keeping a vigilant eye. All three of them had dark hair and dark features, similar to her own.

When the one suited-man pulled out a few stacks of crisp-looking bills and handed it over to the young man across from him, the edge of his jacket covering his back pulled up for just a moment, revealing a dark bulge that could only be one thing. A weapon.

Ziva no longer wondered why Tony decided to intervene. If this didn't scream suspicious, she didn't know what would. She would have stopped, too…

The Tony on-screen directly changed his course, picking up his pace and heading over to the group of men.

As he approached with his badge drawn, which she assumed he used to identify himself, the young thug shifted very uncomfortably, looking as if he might bolt at any second. The other two men shared a quick glance with each other as Tony grabbed the man by the elbow firmly so he couldn't go anywhere. But they did not look nearly as nervous as the guy they were doing business with.

There was a full minute where the four of them remained stationary, talking fervently, Tony keeping his hand on his gun and the man he was holding looking pissed and scared at the same time. After that, several things happened at once.

Tony pushed the man over to the two other men, but not before confiscating the wad of money from under his jacket. He drew his weapon and pointed it at them steadily, warning them. The three of them placed their hands in the air defensively, the two "professionals" looking unnaturally calm.

Tony kept his weapon trained on them as he opened the car doors and briefly searched the vehicle, apparently not finding anything incriminating, because it wasn't long before he closed the doors again, turning his attention to the men standing, watching.

He lowered his weapon and nodded to the car, saying something to them. The owner of the sedan left the group with a scowl and shouted something threateningly at Tony before retreating to the driver's side and pulling out quickly, not wanting to spend any more time than was necessary at the scene.

When the car was gone he re-holstered his Sig completely, still holding his gaze onto the two men left. There was an exchange of words, and Tony took a step closer, intending to jokingly pat one of the guys on the shoulder (at least, that's what it looked like). But he was stopped before he could do so, as the man roughly pushed Tony off with narrowed eyes.

Tony backed off, twitched his arm as if considering to re-draw his weapon, then relaxed again, tossing their money back and waving a hand as if shooing them. And as the two men turned to walk away, Ziva thought she noticed something strange.

Was that a smirk on the one man's face?

She clicked the mouse several times to zoom in on the man, looking closely at him. And then, out of nowhere, out of nothing, her breath caught and she suddenly felt winded.

Oh no. No. Absolutely not. There was just no way. No _fucking_ way.

But there was no mistaking the short curly hair, the amused look of indifference, the small scar that ran under his chin.

There on the screen, eyes gleaming with the attitude of someone who knew he was being watched, was Mossad Officer Levi Shavit. Someone she had not seen in years, and not someone she never expected to see again.

Just…_no_.

The numbness that swept over her was intoxicating, gripping. She steeled her muscles and felt something burn inside of her, unidentifiable and yet potent, tangible. Within seconds she was standing imposingly in front of the store manager.

"Who is this?" she demanded, holding out her cell phone, which she had transferred the images onto.

"Huh?" he asked lowly, not turning around from whatever he was doing behind the counter.

She banged the counter with the palm of her hand impatiently.

"Hey! _Pendejo! Escúchame!_ Who is this man?" she asked again, more edge to her tone. The manager, irritated, took his time in examining the photo of the young Hispanic man.

Then he sighed.

"_Ay Dios mío_…is Enrique in trouble again?"

"Not yet. Just tell me where I can find him."

The manager waved a hand, releasing a breath.

"I do not know. All I know is that he is always with those _gorilas_. They have a hang out five blocks from here," he answered, sounding slightly exasperated.

"Thank you," she spit out quickly, turning to go in a flurry of heated determination and shock. As she was pushing on the door to leave, the manager called her back.

"Wait, _señora_! Why are you looking for Enrique?"

Ziva did not answer, nor did she turn back.

Because whatever she had been expecting, it was not this.

* * *

_Okay, just incase it isn't clear, I made up the guy from Mossad. He's not in any of the episodes or anything. Just clarifying. Okay?_

_So anyway, thanks for reading! I always welcome reviews, and here's a collective thanks to all those who have reviewed: Muchas gracias! Wooo!_


	7. Schism

**Disclaimer: **I hereby do not claim to own NCIS.

_I just ate a bunch of jellybeans and now my teeth hurt. Please enjoy my story haha yes, those two are related. I'm an idiot. Thanks :)_

* * *

It's not raining.

The heavens should be pouring, drenching. Spreading its melancholy everywhere. But it isn't. It should be, would be, but it's not. The skies are clear, deep blue with only small scatterings of wispy white, adding serenity to a place that is harsh and empty by nature.

A funeral.

McGee stands quietly, pulling at his tie uncomfortably and craning his neck, looking around.

Abby is right next to him, holding onto his arm and sniffling softly, unaware of anything but the shoulder she is leaning on and the scene in front of her. She is dressed in all black, so clearly mourning and yet so uniquely Abby. Her eyes look as if they haven't been dry in days.

He does not blame her for it.

Gibbs is hovering close behind, carrying a strong presence that seems to be carved in stone. Unlike Abby, his features are completely stoic and reminiscent of a warrior, battle-weary and yet ever vigilant. Tim thinks he might be imagining it, but his blue eyes seem to reflect the thinness of the faint gray scruff that lines his cheeks and chin.

For some reason, it's fitting.

Next to Gibbs is Ducky, dressed sharply in his black suit with matching hat and bowtie. His eyes are lined with red, matched only by the sour look of grief on his face. He seems to be rocking on his heels slightly, his strange way of keeping himself in balance. Ironic, really. Or maybe just Ducky.

Palmer is behind him, standing close to Vance.

McGee does not spare any time observing the Director - he just looks the same as ever.

Together, along with Tony's father (looking important and unreadable and sad and friendly all at once), they stand in a small huddle, listening and watching as the priest says whatever it is that priests say at these things.

McGee hasn't been listening.

The casket is the centerpiece for the occasion, surrounded by wreaths of flowers and arrangements of gratitude and hope. Standing behind the casket on one side are Tony's closest NCIS friends and what was left of his family, which seemed to be just his father and maybe some cousins.

On the other side of the casket is everyone else. Old friends, more acquaintances from work, people from cases that he'd kept in touch with. All in all, it's a small group and a quiet service that rests with a sort of solemn peace.

But the one person that absolutely should be here, is not.

He tried calling her, numerous times actually. He even left her several messages, both text and voicemail, before giving up. Each time, he couldn't get through to her, and each time, it left him feeling tenser and more worried than before.

Where could she be?

His attention was snapped back by the priest clearing his throat, leaving the opportunity for someone else to come forward and speak. Someone he didn't know, an old buddy from Baltimore maybe, stepped forward, looking somber but strong.

McGee listened at the beginning, hearing only snippets of what was being said. Some people laughed fondly, and a few, like Abby, cried all the harder. Eventually the man's voice got lost in the nonexistent wind and McGee's brain faded out.

His eyes were drawn to the casket, resting and waiting to be lowered into the ground. It was covered traditionally with the American flag, evoking the images of pride and loyalty. Power and good. Home.

Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, the capable investigator. The man who brought down the worst of the worst, the most criminal of the criminals. The man that protected people and took bullets and survived diseases and did the job to the best of his ability every damn day because there was no other way.

Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, the lover of life. The man who joked to no end, the man who could make you smile just by smiling himself. The man who took what he had and ran with it, trying to make it worthwhile. The man that loved, underneath everything.

Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, the hero. The man who filled the hole of his mentor with barely two feet on the ground, the man forced to play so many parts. The man who dove into freezing water to save people without a second thought. The man who ended up tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere because he could not let _her_ go too.

_I'm the guy who looks at the reality in front of him and refuses to accept it._

For McGee, he will always be just Tony.

There is something to be said for the timing, the way the light is clear and bright. It's warm and the air is completely still, not bringing anything with it or taking anything away. There is a strange finality to it, as if everything - the setting, the words, the people…they all come down to this moment.

He watches as Tony's casket stands immovable against the silhouette of green grass.

He is _never_ coming back.

Without reason, without trigger, McGee looks to the boundless sky, open and so full of nothing. He feels his throat burn as he brings his gaze back down, trying to stop himself from giving in, giving up.

He tries to hold on tighter to Abby, but with a fleeting burst of shock and numbness he realizes she has left his side, seeking comfort in the kind of embrace only Gibbs can provide. People were beginning to clear out now. Apparently the service was over.

Strange how such a simple action leaves him feeling more alone than ever.

"Are you coming Timothy?" asked Ducky, placing a comforting hand on McGee's arm.

He cleared his throat, looking stiff as he answered.

"No thanks. Tell Gibbs I'm gonna stay a while," he replied, keeping his softened eyes forward.

Ducky nods his consent and walks away silently, leaving Tim be. He was the only one left standing in the cemetery.

He just can't go yet. Rationally he knows that Tony is dead, soon to be buried. But for some reason, he can't help but feel that if he walks away now, if he leaves, he will have nothing to hold on to.

Ziva would understand.

But, he reminds himself with a frown, she never showed up. Why didn't she come?

With Tony gone, he needed her more than ever. That was the bond they shared, naturally. When Ziva had been away, he and Tony had pulled each other closer because they had to, because they needed to. It was no different now than it was then.

This newfound distance between him and Ziva somehow made the loss of Tony even harder.

McGee glanced around the area, stupidly hoping that maybe she would be waiting somewhere, keeping to herself. Of course, she wasn't.

He was the only one there. And in his head it sounded more like _the only one left_ than he ever wanted it to.

* * *

The neighborhood looked just about the same as it had the day before, but there was something in Ziva's step that made this corner of the concrete jungle seem more livid, more vibrant, more colored.

Angry would seem like the simple term, but the more she looked into this the less simple it had become. And she would be lying if she said she wasn't itching to release it on someone.

Enrique would not know what hit him.

She stepped onto the sidewalk eagerly, wasting no time in heading towards the block she knew she was supposed to be looking for. Quickly, without thought, she checked her cell phone.

Nine missed calls. Seven from McGee, two from Abby. She had no intention of returning them.

She continued walking briskly, keeping her eyes low and determined, concentrating only on what she was about to do and unbothered by people walking around her.

Soon enough she was approaching the place she was looking for, a small urban park area with a couple basketball courts and a little green open space. But, without a doubt, she was more interested in the people gathered there.

She scanned the area quickly, not able to immediately recognize the person she wanted. But before she could think of another way to find him, a group of young Hispanic men dressed like thugs approached her while trying to look intimidating.

"Something I can help you with _chica_?" asked one, whom she assumed to be the leader. She kept up her cool appearance of looking unfazed.

"Can you tell me where Enrique is?" she asked firmly, nodding her head to indicate the men hanging closer to the basketball courts.

The man laughed.

"Can I get your name first?" he retorted, earning a few laughs from his friends.

"No," she replied, her gaze steeled.

"Then we might have a problem," he sated, twitching his crossed arm for a second and looking as if he might reach into his jacket.

Ziva, seeing this, sprang forward and caught his arm before he could do so, twisting his wrist and eliciting a short cry of pain.

He looked pissed now. All of his friends with him stiffened, looking uneasy at the sudden show of force.

"Alright alright _mamí_ I'll tell you!"

"Where is he?" she demanded, keeping her hold tight on the idiotic wannabe-gangster.

"Behind the fence with the _jefe_! Just let me go _puta loca_!" he shouted, earning himself another twist of the arm before he was released and pushed back with his friends, all staring nervously at Ziva.

She brushed past them without making eye contact with any of them, gaining a primal satisfaction from the feeling of sweat around the concealed gun pushed against the small of her back.

She can see him now, sitting on a bench with some other people from his gang, laughing at all the right places and talking appreciatively to the man in charge, who looked to be both the most muscular and the most threatening.

Within seconds her gun was out from her back and held steady in her hand, feeling tight and controlled. She cocked the hammer noiselessly, keeping her dark eyes fixed on her target, who had no idea she was approaching from behind.

"Enrique?" she asked darkly, a flowing power to the word, causing the laughter to stop and for the man on the end of the bench to turn his head to look at whoever had called his name.

His smile disappeared and his widened eyes darted from the face he instantly recognized to the gun held firmly in her hand. He let out a quick curse and moved to make a run for it, but she grabbed him by the collar before he could do so.

She roughly dragged him off to the side slightly, putting several yards between him and his buddies, who all looked just as surprised as Enrique did.

"Move and you die," she threatened the group, her voice leaving no room for question. One arm was locked tightly around Enrique's neck, and the other was raised defensively, keeping her gun pointed in the direction of the other men.

She turned her attention back to the man trying to get out of her death-grip.

"Remember me?" she asked scathingly, her voice low and dangerous. His obvious discomfort only fuelled the rush.

"Fuck do you want?" he spat out, his voice forced from the position he was in. The snake-like tattoo on his neck that she had seen on the security footage was just visible beneath the elbow constricting his windpipe.

"Did you kill my partner?" she asked slowly, something frighteningly calm about her tone.

No answer.

She turned her weapon away from the onlookers and brought it directly against his temple, squeezing his neck slightly.

"Answer the question!"

"Yes!" he choked out, his face reddening as his fearful eyes flitted to the metal pressed against his face.

"Why?" she demanded, keeping her gun next to his head.

"He tried to play the hero messed with the wrong _hermano_," he replied with a smirk-like grimace, an air of arrogance to his tone, despite his current predicament.

A few of the other gang members had slowly started to rise from their seats, hoping to catch Ziva at a moment of disadvantage. No such thing.

She turned her weapon back towards them, and they immediately stopped moving.

"Why was Mossad involved?" she asked heatedly, the same threatening edge to her tone.

"Who?" he shouted stupidly, convincing no one.

"_Why_ were they here? Answer me!"

He coughed again, still trying to release himself from her increasingly strong grip.

"They wanted some information, okay?"

"On what?" she asked, her heartbeat quickening as she got closer and closer. The palm enclosed around her gun was sweating.

"I _don't _know!"

She paused for a moment, trying to search his face for what she wanted.

"Give me one reason why I should not snap your neck," she spat out heatedly, glaring at him with an intensity she could truly _feel_.

"_Espera_! I'm telling the truth! They never told me!"

Ziva considered this for a moment, still keeping her hold on him.

"You know where they are?"

He coughed again.

"No!"

"If you are lying…" she threatened, bringing her voice right into his ear for the best effect possible.

"I'm not! Just let me go, I swear!"

She gripped him tighter for just a moment before suddenly releasing him, shoving him away from her.

He stumbled slightly as he simultaneously tried to massage his neck and keep himself from falling. But as he turned around to see what the crazy fed was doing, he doubled over onto the pavement as he was met with a swift kick to the crotch.

And as he was lying on the ground wheezing as his _amigos_ laughed in spite of him, she stared him down.

"Come near me again, and I _will_ kill you."

She walked away without another word, ignoring their jeers as she did so.

Her phone rang again.

She ignored it.

Small streaks of tears ran down her face, soft and somehow cheap.

She ignored them.

A raw feeling of anger and misuse and absolute betrayal at her entire situation seeped into her veins.

She wished she could ignore it.

* * *

_Thanks for reading everyone! Have a good Easter if that's what you celebrate! Oh, and leave a review :)_


	8. Night

**Disclaimer:** NCIS not mine.

_I've got nothing. Read on!_

* * *

The sun was only just beginning to set, but the distant cloud cover and shadows of the surrounding buildings made this particular street appear far more secluded than the rest of the buzzing city.

Which, of course, was the point.

Timothy McGee shifted in his leather seat slightly, trying to prevent his muscles from getting too stiff from being in one position too long. With everything that had happened, he'd almost forgotten how unbearably tedious stakeouts could be.

He checked the small dial to the left of the dashboard to make sure his running lights were completely off before relaxing into his seat again and turning his attention back to the scene around him.

He was parallel parked next to the curb, and the only thing that appeared more conspicuous than the stationary navy blue Charger was the fact that the man waiting inside was literally the only person around.

But then, he didn't pick this place.

Ziva had texted him twenty minutes ago telling him to meet her here, and when he called her back to try and find out what was wrong she didn't pick up. Whatever it was, she was playing it pretty close to the chest. Hence, text message. And as a result, impromptu meet-up.

He _really_ hoped she hadn't done something stupid – the barfight had been bad enough.

A flash of color in the rearview grabbed McGee's attention, and he looked up to see a female figure approaching quickly from the sidewalk on the passenger-door side.

Dark curly hair, olive green jacket, and a look that seemed to freeze and burn.

Definitely Ziva.

She slid into the front seat gracefully before slamming the door shut behind her, throwing a last look over her shoulder to make sure there was no threat, or danger, or whatever.

Other than the bluish-brown bruise circled around her jaw-line, there were no signs that she had been in any sort of trouble – physically.

"Is it just you?" she asked hurriedly, craning her neck and glancing around the street to be thorough.

It took some effort to assure himself that her precautions were nothing out of the ordinary.

"Boss is taking Ducky home. Why?"

Still no indication of what this was about.

"I was not followed," she stated lowly and apparently randomly, not answering McGee's question. Intentional or not, it didn't take a NCIS Special Agent to realize something was bothering her.

"Ziva what's going on?"

"I found him," she replied firmly, meeting his curious gaze for the first time.

"Who?" he asked, feeling like his brain was working much faster than his words.

"Tony's killer!"

McGee's mouth hung open the slightest bit, confused and ready at the same time.

"His name is Enrique Morales."

Oh god.

"What? How the hell did you do that? Gibbs and I have been working for days to find something and…how did you do it?" he spit out quickly, sounding more and more like a ramble as he went on.

"Does it matter?"

More like, _I am not telling you either way_.

McGee paused for a moment, letting the information sink in as he kept his focused eyes locked on her. He let out a small breath, calming himself down.

"I guess not…you know where he is?"

"Yes," she replied, deadpan. Holding back.

McGee looked at her excitedly and incredulously for a moment, eyes lighting up as he turned the key in the ignition to start up the car again.

"Well let's go pick him up! We can call Gibbs on the way," he conceded, quickly reaching for his cell phone as his heart started to pump faster as the realization of what had just unfolded started to catch up with him.

Ziva put up a hand to stop him.

"No no Tim, stop. Listen. I _found_ him."

He brought his hand back from the key slowly, eyeing her.

"You mean…you actually…met with him?" he asked, trying to gauge her response. She only nodded.

"And…you let him go?" he tried again, simultaneously trying to extract information from her and to wrap his head around the possibility that _Ziva David_, of all people, had let Tony's murderer go free.

Another solemn nod.

"Why?"

She released a short breath, as if preparing the right words to say. To explain.

"I know it might sound, strange, coming from me," she began, moving her hands around in a way that McGee knew meant she was somehow anxious. "But I am not the only one who lost Tony that night."

His expression softened a bit with this, but Ziva could almost see it written on his face.

_Then why didn't you come to the funeral?_

For whatever reason, he doesn't ask, and he stared out the window absentmindedly as he lets the understanding fall into place.

"Does this guy know we're still after him?" he questioned sternly, the strength of his voice not really directed at her.

"Most likely. But he will not be hard to find."

Suddenly deflated, not comprehending what she meant, he scoffed to himself and lowered his voice.

"Yeah right. Ten bucks says he's two hundred miles away by now."

Stifled silence passed between them, and McGee kept his gaze directed out the window so as not to take out his irritation on the woman sitting next to him.

Ziva looked at him hesitantly, not exactly sure where they, the two of them, stood at that moment.

"I was in Tony's apartment the other day…" she confessed quietly, eyes lowered.

McGee could have guessed this, given that her prints were literally all over the place, but it was a different thing entirely to hear her tell him about it and to see, to really see, just how she was coping.

And from the looks of it, not very well at all.

"I took the watch he was always bragging about."

Despite the situation, he let out another small sort.

"The one he used constantly for that case in Shenandoah cause it has GPS?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Release. Truth or not, she always had that air of hiding something.

"And I slipped it into the killer's back pocket when I was…talking to him."

"Soo…." trailed McGee, trying to make a connection.

Wait for it…

"So even if his phone is off we can still track him if I can lock onto the GPS in the watch!"

He eagerly went to start the engine again, regaining confidence and a new feeling of adrenaline in his veins, but Ziva stopped him again, putting her hand on the door.

"You and Gibbs should go without me. I have to go."

"What? Why? This is our only chance to bring him in!"

It did not escape her notice the words that he, a good person by default, chose to use. But they both knew what he meant. Enrique Morales would be dead before morning.

"I am not supposed to be here. If Vance finds out I helped you he will have my butt, yes?"

He didn't say anything in response, just watched as she visibly tried to keep herself together. She nodded briefly before grabbing for the door and trying to make her way out.

"So then where are you going?" he asked quickly, a slight tone of desperation to his voice.

"I have other things to do, McGee," she replied darkly, checking over her shoulder once again. The fading sun was almost completely below the skyline now.

She was mid-swing while closing the car door before he stopped her again.

"Ziva!"

She turned back abruptly, eyebrows raised and expression calm, despite her heart rate increasing at the swirl of thoughts racing around in her head.

"Just…just be careful, alright?"

For whatever reason, whatever trigger, Ziva felt a sudden rush of warmth and knew that she has never appreciated McGee more than in this moment.

This time she was the one left standing alone as he pulled away from the curb and away from her, but it wasn't long before she was stalking off into the night, feeling that the image of a predator was very much fitting.

When had she crossed back over to being this person again?

If she had an answer to that she probably wouldn't be here in the first place, and this was something she felt everywhere she went.

Fuck it.

Because she would do whatever was necessary to find Officer Shavit.

* * *

Twenty-five minutes.

From the time McGee had spoken to his boss about the possible location of their suspect to when the two cars pulled up silently to a pub in a slightly run-down section of the city, that's how long it took.

Less than an hour.

From the minute they started looking for him, all those years ago, they had never really known Ari's exact location. And the only reason they were able to take down the people responsible for Jenny's death was because Gibbs used himself as bait.

Somehow now, after days and nights and many many hours of _nothing_, they suddenly had the most tangible and dramatic _something_ they could imagine.

Walking up to the front doors of the pub, his very truly fearless leader by his side, McGee felt a strange sense of calm.

He always thought it would be harder.

With Salim it had been different, since it was Tony's battle in so many ways (although he definitely wanted that man to suffer too), and Gibbs was the one who ultimately pulled the trigger. There had been planning, build-up, a strong sense of what was going to happen.

This, was immediate. Lighter somehow.

He always thought vengeance – the sweetness, the beautiful struggle – would feel like a much more significant betrayal of self than it did.

"Keep your eyes open," warned Gibbs, keeping his voice down so as not to make it obvious they were scanning the crowd for one particular patron.

The picture Ziva had sent him was of fairly decent quality, so it wasn't that challenging of a task. And he was positive the GPS location was accurate.

Gibbs didn't ask where he had gotten the information, only that it was legitimate. Hell, he probably knew anyway.

"Boss," he whispered fervently, heart racing as he thought he spotted who he was looking for. "Northwest corner, back table. Sitting alone."

"Got it. Go get him. I'll take the right."

McGee nodded silently, concentrating hard on the person at the table with several empty beer bottles and no company.

How stupid could this Morales character get?

At the sudden approach of someone who was so clearly a cop, his head shot up, albeit a little on the ungraceful side due to the alcohol. He quickly dropped the bottle he was holding back on the table and literally threw himself off the seat and onto the floor to get away.

Tim didn't have time to reach out and stop him as he tried to run, but he did have time to see a nasty purple and blue bruise wrapped around the side of his neck, courtesy of Ziva.

He almost smiled.

The fucker really should have learned his lesson.

All the sudden a few shouts and gasps of surprise came from around the corner of the bar, and it was only at the sight of Gibbs glaring at the man on the ground while massaging his right hand that McGee lowered his weapon.

Gibbs roughly heaved him up by one shoulder, telling his junior agent with a jerk of the head to do the same on the other side.

With two guns at his back and no way of escaping the position he was in, Enrique complied begrudgingly as the two agents dragged him outside, exiting through the slightly hidden side-door.

The door led them to a relatively empty back alley, the only thing besides the three people being several stacks of crates and a few large bags of trash leaning against one of the metal dumpsters.

It was only a matter of seconds until Enrique was pushed forcefully away, literally backed into a corner. Two weapons were raised threateningly, aimed at his chest.

Gibbs spoke first.

"Are you Enrique Morales?" he asked, a powerfully smooth and flowing edge to his tone.

"You _federales_ are making a very big mistake," he spat back, shooting his scowl between the two of them. His response didn't at all match the way his hands were raised in the air submissively.

McGee frowned.

"I'd take that as a yes, Boss."

They both took a small step closer, forcing the thug to back up even more. He was doing a terrible job at hiding his fear.

"No no wait! Wait! Don't be stupid! I have important friendsand if you kill me they will n—"

Dual gunshots cracked at exactly the same time, sending Morales sprawling backwards and colliding with the wall, slumping down to the ground with a low thud as dark red blood began to seep through his shirt.

Gibbs checked his pulse after a still moment. Nothing.

Tim tried not to think of how Tony must have looked the same exact way when he was killed. His Sig was still partly raised in the air. His boss was staring at him expectantly, face unreadable as always. The effect was amplified by the scruff that he still hadn't shaved.

"They're gonna know it was us," said McGee lowly, reholstering his gun and turning to face his leader.

"Uh-huh," replied Gibbs, glancing around the alley out of habit. There had to be more than that, right?

Of course there was.

"You saw him reach for a weapon, right Special Agent McGee?" he asked, a slight smirk on his face that didn't at all reflect the feigned professionalism and downright lie he was telling.

The intense blue gaze was still directed at him.

"Uh, yeah, I saw it. Reaching. He was definitely…reaching," he muttered stupidly, trying to get that stare, which was all the more dangerous in situations like these, away from him.

There was another quiet, measured silence.

Should he be more affected by the body, dead by his hand, only a few yards away from him?

Instead of pondering an answer he chose to move towards the front end of the alleyway, where Gibbs was standing impassively and looking as if he was waiting for something.

McGee's presence seemed to ask his question for him.

"Get Ducky back here. I want to finish this thing."

He nodded, knowing that obeying that simple command was so much easier than thinking about everything there was to think about.

It took less than two minutes to get the medical examiner both on and off the phone. Under different circumstances, that may have been a more impressive feat.

"So what now?" asked McGee, feeling that he was asking about more than just what they should be doing in this exact moment.

Gibbs must have sensed this, but if he had an answer he kept it to himself.

"We only found one of the men in that picture McGee…" he trailed, referring to the screenshot of Morales, now dead, and the two other professional-looking men interacting with DiNozzo the night before his murder.

Something about the way the looked, their expressions…it didn't sit right. He guessed he'd be at NCIS all night.

But for Tony, he would do it.

* * *

_Thank you for giving this your time! Reviews are always welcome! Thanks :) Enjoy your weekend!_


	9. Lotus

**Disclaimer: **NCIS is still not mine.

_Thank you so much for anyone that has showed support of this story! It really means a lot :) Also, I'm really tired right now so I hope I don't wake up tomorrow and think I'm a huge idiot for staying up late to finish this...nahhh that won't happen. Oh well. _

* * *

"Abs," called McGee suddenly, his voice firm yet holding concern.

The woman next to him ignored his attempt, keeping her eyes – eyes that been lacking so much life recently – lowered and fixed on her computer screen.

"Are you okay?"

Something in the question caused her to suddenly turn on him, pigtails swinging across her face with the momentum. It wasn't the flair and vibrancy he was looking for, but at least it was a spark.

"Okay?" she repeated incredulously, narrowing her eyes at him. "How am I supposed to be okay?"

And so it backfires. McGee, the eternal stumbler of words, suddenly wishes he had kept his comment about how out of it she had seemed to himself.

"How am I supposed to be okay when Tony, _Tony_, was murdered just like that and you and Gibbs are never here because you're too busy trying to find who killed him and I'm stuck here running down dead ends and the Director keeps asking me where you are and I still can't believe that Tony is dead and _Ziva_…"

She ended her rant with a drawn out sigh and the sudden cessation of her animated hands, releasing her breath and closing her eyes to steady herself. When she opened them again, they were glistening with unshed tears and her voice was thicker than normal.

"How am I supposed to be okay, Timmy?"

He shook his head, searching for words.

"I…" he began, feeling nothing but heavy blankness in his thoughts. "I don't know."

And that's just it. That's the answer to everything, anything. The questions never stop, and no matter how hard he thinks and he thinks and oh, does he think…but it amounts to nothing.

You _do not _know.

For some reason, he thinks of Gibbs, and the image of his fierce gaze reminds him of why he's here.

Abby is staring at him with that look, _that_ look, but he knows there is nothing he can do to fix it. Not now.

He takes her hand slowly, looking her in the eye calmly.

"I need you to do something for me."

"Name it, Probie," she replies softly, sending him a tired smile as she easily falls into using the nickname Tony refused to let go. There is something incredibly serene, beautiful even, in that moment, but they let it pass.

The feeling could almost burn.

"I need you to run facial recognition on these two suspects," he says with a hint of determination, pointing to the two men in suits with DiNozzo and Morales in the screenshot from the security footage.

She nodded simply and snatched the phone with the picture out of McGee's hands, working furiously to hook it up to her software.

It took a few seconds for the image to transfer onto the computer, but with a few clicks and fingers flying over the keys with focus, the photo was enlarged and enhanced on the bigger screen.

As the facial recognition software began whirring away with its digital search, Abby turned to McGee, her voice still in that soft, easy tone.

"So what do you think?" she asked, indicating with a flick of the eyes the two men the program was searching for. "Latino?"

McGee squinted a little, studying the image.

"Uh, I don't think so. Italian maybe?"

"Oh! I think I got it!"

He waited, eyebrows raised.

"Greek!"

"Greek," he repeated lowly, staring at her. "As in…Greece," he tried, still trying to figure out where she was coming from.

"What's wrong with being Greek?"

He laughed a little, amused at her seriousness.

"Well nothing, it's just…we don't even know they're from that area. People like them could come from anywhere. They could be from….Sweden," he said out of the blue, looking mildly impressed with himself.

"Okay spare me the melting pot speech, and think about this. People that look like _that_," she said leadingly, jabbing a finger at the two men on the screen. "…don't come from northern Europe."

"Fine," he conceded, giving her the mock-exasperation look. "But will you at least agree they aren't from Greece?"

"Okay you've made your point Timmy! They could be Moroccan, they could be Turkish, they could be,"

Two flashing dialog boxes and a frantic beeping interrupted her sentence, revealing the names and basic background information of the two people they were trying to identify.

"Israeli," she finished, her eyes slightly widened with shock as she shared a guilty glance with the man next to her.

Oh.

No.

_Crap_.

"What does it say about them?" asked McGee fervently, gently pushing her hands aside so he could satisfy his need to figure things out as he typed quickly to bring up their files.

"They both work for an investment company based in the DC area. Looks like one's supposed to be a representative and the other is some sort of international consultant," read Abby, sounding disbelieving.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Are you thinking that Mossad should really think of some new covers for their undercover operatives?"

"Something like that yeah," muttered McGee, looking away from the screen for a moment, deep in thought. Déjà vu, anyone?

When he spun on his heel and made to leave with a fierce look of resolve, Abby grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Wait! You _cannot_ just run out of here like that!"

McGee looked incredulous that she would be stopping him.

"I have to go tell Gibbs! And Ziva…" he added as an afterthought, getting worried just thinking about it and therefore trying to pull away again.

"Ziva? Is that who your mystery source is?" asked Abby sharply, dropping his arm but staring at him with a gaze that seemed to pierce right through him.

At his look of surprise, she scoffed.

"How stupid do you think I am McGee?"

He sighed, trying to calm her down.

"Abby, I don't think you're stupid, I just…I have t—"

But she cut him off.

"Last time this happened nothing good came out of it. Are you listening to me? Not, one, thing," she emphasized, still holding the stare.

"This isn't like last time!"

She seemed to consider this for a moment, softening her gaze in a way that made her look as if she was frightened of what she was going to say.

And oh, she was.

"Are you sure this is different? Isn't it possible that Zi—"

But it was her turn to be cut off.

"Absolutely not," he replied firmly, standing his ground.

She frowned a little and finally released him, suddenly uneasy at the amount of tension that crossed his features as he held her look. She wasn't used to this kind of McGee.

"I need to talk to Gibbs," he said sullenly, dropping their interpretive eye dance and heading to the door, phone in hand.

Abby only watched him go.

And as he strode from the lab and the doors of the elevator closed around him, he did his best to keep himself from admitting that he had no idea what Abby had actually been asking back there.

Because he _did not_ know.

He just prayed.

Prayed they were wrong.

* * *

Ziva paused for a moment and glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, checking the time and noticing with a sudden pang of realization that she had been up all night.

Not that it mattered, since she had no obligations other than the one she had imposed upon herself. And there was no time limit, no deadline.

This had to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

How long had it been since she'd left McGee in the car? A little over half a day maybe?

She sighed and took in a deep breath, adjusting her vision to the darkness of her apartment – she hadn't even realized the lights had been off the whole time. Her eyes burned and threatened to water from staring at nothing but a computer screen for hours.

Damn. Hours?

Trying to remotely access classified Mossad file archives and somehow making a connection to a murder that should never have happened was no easy feat, but had she really been going at it for _this_ long?

Regardless, there was no way she was giving up now. All of this searching, this secrecy and determination – it had to be leading up to something, right?

Except the further she dug herself in, the more she felt like throwing the laptop against the wall and knocking down doors to find what she needed, but there was just no way. Even in her current state, there was no logic in stopping now.

She was close. She had to be.

She checked the clock again and stretched her arms slightly as she tried to think of a new angle to start from. Her current approach had resulted in nothing.

Well, not _nothing_, but it may as well be.

She had discovered that Officer Shavit and his partner had been dispatched from Israel less than a month ago on some sort of operation for Mossad, but that was all she could find without advanced hacking ability and resources that simply weren't available to her.

She knew who they were, and she knew when they got here. Why and where, the two harder questions and the two she cared most about, were no closer to being solved than they were when Enrique Morales emptied a clip into her partner.

She racked her brain to remember something, anything that she may have overlooked or been approaching in the wrong way. There _has_ to be a breakthrough. Somehow.

Nothing.

Was she really running out of options this quickly?

Her brain was far too tired and far too overworked to even begin to answer that question, and she could not let hopelessness sink in even if she wanted it to. It was just too late, for so many things.

Frustrated at the lack of any sort of result that had meaning, Ziva ran a hand through her hair and released a breath, not thinking much of anything.

She shut her eyes and rested her head against her arms crossed on the counter, shutting out just for a moment the bright light of the computer that continued to glare at her and her failure to come up with anything.

Not the best idea.

Within minutes she was asleep and unaware.

* * *

"Boss!" called McGee loudly as he stepped out of the elevator, just catching a glimpse of the man turning the corner into the bullpen.

Gibbs stopped before his desk and turned around, eyebrows raised and coffee in hand.

"We have a really big problem. And I don't think you're gonna like it."

Ah yes, phrase of the century.

"What?" he demanded, more irritated that he was about to be irritated about something, than at the man who was delivering this source of irritation.

"Those two guys Morales was with in the photo? Guess who they work for," led McGee darkly, knowing full well that no matter how he said it, this wasn't going to go over well.

"Who?" Gibbs demanded again, half-slamming his coffee cup on his desk as the topic of conversation became a hell of a lot more interesting, and more dangerous.

McGee paused.

"Mossad."

Gibbs just stared for a moment, completely still.

And then his features changed, his blue eyes had the look of turning into hardened ice, and he slowly approached McGee so that he was almost right in his face. Intimidating, hovering.

"You better be damn sure about this McGee."

But Tim didn't back down.

"I'm positive. It's the only thing that fits."

Gibbs took a step back and let out his own frustrated breath, contemplating something for a moment before turning on his heel, heading away from his junior agent.

"Stay here. Don't do anything until I tell you!" he commanded, already halfway towards the hallway.

"Where are you going?" asked McGee loudly, turning around himself to address his boss, who was now at the first landing of the stairs.

"To talk to the Director. Wait there!" he reiterated, pointing a firm finger at him as he did so.

McGee was left staring at the empty bullpen, cell-phone clutched tightly in his hand. One look at the image still displayed dimly on the screen, and he forgot that he was supposed to wait for the go-ahead before he did anything.

This was _not _good.

But he really needed to talk to Ziva…

He dialed the familiar number into his phone quickly, glancing over his shoulder out of habit to make sure Gibbs was definitely gone.

His heart beat faster with every second of ringing.

Come on come on, pick up.

_Pick up_.

No answer.

He tried again…

* * *

Ziva's head shot up instantly, senses overwhelmed with the sudden feeling of being interrupted.

It took a moment for her to orient herself and adjust her eyes to the light, or lack of it, as she brought herself out of the sleep she hadn't realized she had fallen into.

It wasn't long before she recognized what had woken her up.

Her phone was vibrating loudly on the counter to her left, shaking as it lit up and rumbled against the surface of the wood.

But it was not loud enough to stifle the sounds of harsh knocking coming from her door.

What?

She took a quick glance at the caller ID – McGee – before silencing it and turning her attention to the person pounding on her door.

Her hand was behind her back and gripped tightly on the gun concealed there as she crossed the tile floor and approached the door, flicking on a light as she did so.

When she finally opened it, her chest tightened for a moment and she did not breathe.

No.

Officer Amit Hadar was standing in her doorway, a small smile on his face.

"Shalom Ziva."

* * *

_Thanks for reading everyone! Leave a review and have a nice weekend :) _


	10. Lacrymosa

**Disclaimer: **Does NCIS belong to me? Uh, no.

_This has to be record timing for updating speed. Less than two days, I think. And I banged this out in one sitting - be impressed. Probably just because I've been planning this chaptah for a long-ass time, but hey..._

* * *

Her gun was out and perfectly aimed in a second, eyes narrowed.

"Put the weapon away Ziva. Do you want the police here?"

"I do not need the police to arrest you."

Hadar laughed, keeping his hands raised in the air as a sign of peace.

"Arrest me? I only came to talk."

She didn't waver, lead barrel still pointed right at his heart.

"I do not want to talk."

"But you must listen," he amended, eyes flickering from the gun aimed at him and the eyes of the person who held it so steadily. "Are you going to let me in?"

"Last time you were in my apartment you destroyed it."

There was no way she was trusting him this easily. He should have left her alone.

Hadar sighed, his voice more empathetic, quieter.

"Ziva, please."

She kept her dark brown eyes trained on him for a moment before finally dropping her stance, stepping aside and allowing him into the threshold of her living space.

Her gun remained easily accessible on the counter next to the laptop, which she flipped closed as he strode by it and into the sitting room.

Upon seeing the scattered books about American history and the Constitution, along with the small American flag knick-knack on the coffee table, Hadar let out a wry smile.

"I see you've redecorated."

She ignored him, schooling her features and radiating seriousness, professionalism.

"You came to talk," she led, keeping her distance in more ways than one.

"Mm," he confirmed lowly, his eyes losing their lightness and sharpening slightly. He glanced around the room again before continuing.

"You are currently looking for Officer Shavit, are you not?"

Ziva uncrossed her arms, face clenched with confusion. At her surprise towards his knowledge, he smiled again.

"Two days ago you interrogated a store manager about people in his security footage. Twenty-four hours later, one of them ends up dead. And you have been spending the last seven hours searching through classified Mossad databases."

She narrowed her eyes at the arrogant tone in his voice.

"If you wanted to remain undetected, perhaps you should have called on your friend Agent McGee."

Still she said nothing, and he let out another soft chuckle at her defiance.

"Tell me Ziva, what is it you are hoping to find?"

"Answers," she replied quickly, watching his movements and reaction carefully.

"About Officer Shavit?"

"Why is he here? What was Mossad trying to accomplish?"

At the anger in her questions, Hadar nodded his head solemnly, folding his hands behind his back. He had the cold look of not being comfortable revealing what he was about to divulge.

"Officer Shavit and his partner are tracking a Lebanese arms dealer with strong ties to Hezbollah, confirmed to have fled here, to Washington. And the local gang network has a surprising amount of information about such people in their neighborhood."

Hadar had been clear, decisive. Describing with the air of not withholding anything, as people like him were trained to do and practiced on a regular basis. He explained Mossad (although their refusal to play by the rules, even now, stirred up some anger), he explained Morales.

Where and why, done.

But he left out the one thing that she cared most about, in her heart of hearts.

"And Tony?"

No turning back from that now.

"Mossad was not involved in Agent DiNozzo's death. Shavit had no knowledge that there was ever a threat of this happening."

So easy, it seemed. Question, answer. Action, response. Target, hit. Wrapped up a lifetime's worth of pain into a series of phrases and hand gestures, and it was over with. Done.

Not today.

It was a load of shit.

Ziva clenched her jaw and lowered her voice, meeting his gaze without hesitation.

"I do not believe you," she said with finality, watching him intensely as he closed some of the distance between them.

Perhaps he suspected this, because he only nodded at her in agreement.

"You do not have to. But your father has requested that you stop your search immediately."

He was hitting the right nerve and he knew it, a flickering spark flashing in his eye as he watched her reaction.

She glared.

"I made it very clear that I no longer answer to Mossad _or_ my father," she spat out, turning on her heel and retreating to her bedroom to pack a bag. To get the hell away from him and whatever he was holding back.

Regardless of what she was told, she was not giving up yet. There were things left undone, things that she could not leave alone if she tried, and vice versa.

Hadar watched her go wearily, raising his voice to be heard more clearly.

"If I cannot convince you to stop then he has asked to speak with you himself," he said firmly, stepping out of her way as she brushed past him to gather her computer and some things from the kitchen area.

She stuffed them into her bag and grabbed her jacket without looking at him.

"If he wants to talk to me he can come find me," she stated, throwing a water-bottle in her bag before turning her back on Hadar and heading to the door.

The cold click of a gun being cocked stopped her.

* * *

McGee spun away from the staircase and turned to the empty bullpen, called by some unknown force to observe the stillness around him.

To his right, an empty desk. His own. But he had no inclination to sit, and he could not explain it for the life of him.

Across from him, an empty desk. Gibbs was always in and out, but somehow now it made him think of responsibility and how in less than a week, so much had changed.

Next to that, an empty desk. Ziva should be here, but because of some political crap and her own inability to buy into that, she wasn't. And the tension seemed to grow everyday.

And to his left, an empty desk. Forever.

He would practically give anything to see Tony stride carelessly into the bullpen one more time, bragging about one thing or another.

McGee had no idea what Gibbs and Vance were talking about, but if it was at all related to the conspicuous results he had just come up with, then it was sure to be anything but good.

Results…

Damn it.

Why was it that Mossad always had a way of showing up just when you think you're two steps away from moving on?

Ziva knew. There was no doubt in his mind that she was _not_ involved, not after everything. But she knew. She had to.

It was only now that he realized the real reason she showed restraint against Morales – she had more important people to hunt down.

But the only way she could have known they were Mossad without some kind of software was if she recognized them. And if she recognized them, she knew them. And if she knew them, then the outcome was likely to be twice as bad for all parties involved.

Either way, it came down to one thing.

Ziva was fucked.

One permanently empty desk. And he would be damned if he was going to let that become two.

Wasn't there a stupid Gibbs rule about that anyway? Never sit on the sidelines when one of your people is in trouble or something…

_Nice try McMemory, but that's my rule. I always did like it when you called me Boss…_

DiNozzo. DiNozzo would have gone after Ziva. But then, DiNozzo would never disobey Gibbs if he could help it.

Maybe, maybe not. His boss had directly ordered him to stay, to do nothing. But could he just leave Ziva to go through whatever she was going through alone?

Gibbs or Ziva?

But that's just it. It doesn't just come down to loyalty between those two. Because whatever Ziva was doing, it was sure to involve Tony somehow. And Ziva had been there, had felt it first, when Tony was killed.

They were inexplicably linked. Together. Choosing to help Ziva would also be choosing to help Tony, and if he disregarded that he would be lying.

He glanced to the stairs behind him, solidifying his choice.

He would not let this happen again.

Within a few seconds his coat and his gear were tucked under his arm, and it was only a blur of determination that he left behind as he went for the elevator.

* * *

Ziva froze, heart racing as she turned around carefully, placing her bag down on the floor in a slow, measured manner.

Hadar, who had just moments ago been idly watching her pack, was pointing a weapon at her in a threateningly calm way.

"I will use force if I must," he said coolly, face unreadable.

Her glare could burn.

"You would kill me? For him?"

"I will do what is necessary for your cooperation."

The enticing black of her gun resting on the counter was visible out of the corner of her eye, but there was no chance. If she went for it he could put a hole in her before she even touched it.

"Necessary," she repeated tonelessly, dark irises glinting.

And then in one moment, the atmosphere exploded.

Her leg flew up out of nowhere, kicking the weapon out of his hands with perfection. Hadar reacted instantly, bringing his hands up and blocking her next punch. She retracted her hand and forcefully brought up her knee into his stomach, eliciting a low grunt of pain as the wind left him for just a moment.

His brief drop in defense was just the space she needed to thrust her arm around his neck, holding him there as he temporarily gasped for breath.

But Hadar was no amateur.

His flung his elbow directly into her jaw, causing her to release her grip completely as she fought to steady herself from losing her balance. He turned and shoved her against the wall and squeezed his hands tightly against her arms, trying to keep her in place.

His nose shattered with a dull crack as her forehead collided roughly with his face, sending him reeling backwards.

Suddenly his defensive tactics became all the more aggressive as his anger at her retaliation amplified, and with little effort he blocked the kick aimed at his torso and backhanded her fiercely, still gripping the leg he had captured in midair.

With head turned away from the force of his strike and body twisted from the hold she was in, it didn't take long for Hadar to aim his own kick at the back of her other knee and sweep her completely off her feet.

She slammed into the hardwood with a loud thud, one knee bent upwards and pressed into her chest as a shield from the man she was fighting to keep from completely pinning her.

In the second between her landing on the floor and Hadar lowering himself to the ground to lean over her flattened body, the knife strapped to her ankle was out and held tightly against his throat.

She could have laughed had he not beat her to it.

His eyes were lingering at her thigh menacingly before he brought them back to her face with a thin frown. It took until she tore her own eyes away from his face to see what he was so smug about that she realized _he_ had the upper hand.

She froze, if only for a second.

The leg brought up to defend herself had served only to leave her inner thigh exposed.

A prick against her skin confirmed that he was holding a small syringe, and by the time she tried to move her hand to stop him (which he easily deflected), its contents were already emptied into her bloodstream.

It did not take long for the sedative to begin working through her system, and it was with blurred vision that she opened her mouth to speak.

"Why are you doing this?" she practically whispered, her words slow and fading.

Hadar sighed as he caught the hand previously held against his throat as it fell and her control slipped away.

"I have to."

He received no reply as her eyes fluttered shut and she fell away into darkness. He grabbed his discarded gun again before slinging her over his shoulder and heading for the door.

By the time McGee arrived, Hadar was gone without a trace.

* * *

_Reviews always welcome and much appreciated! Thanks for reading!_


	11. Cold

**Disclaimer: **NCIS does not belong to el autor, me. Okay.

_This took me forever (relatively) to write. Not sure why, but it's fine. Happens to the worst of us. Anyway, enjoy the read!_

* * *

Ziva awoke to the sound of voices – slow, calm, and unclear.

She kept still and features stiffened in the position she was in, fighting to understand. She tried to force herself to pick up on some sort of trigger, something to grab her and pull her out of the tired haze, but the struggle was futile.

She kept her breathing steady and believable as she tried to determine her surroundings silently.

Definitely laying on something, and from the feel and lack of flat harshness it seemed to be a leather couch or some sort of comfortable bench. Neither her hands nor her feet were bound, and the relative brightness of the light waiting just outside her eyelids meant she was not blindfolded.

Hold on.

Couch?

It was at this moment that either the voices became louder or more were added, or both, because she was suddenly able to decipher what they were saying – they were talking about her, and something about the Americans. In Hebrew.

And she instantly knew where she was. _Israeli Embassy_.

She focused her attention on listening, thankful that she was facing the wall and that her first few moments of waking up completely unaware had gone unnoticed by the people standing guard in the hallway.

Once she was certain that they were not directly in the room watching her, she slowly swung her legs off the couch and sat for the smallest of moments, trying to shake away the remnants of sluggishness from the drug she had been given.

But shuffling outside the room stopped her.

"_Your turn to check. Make sure you took her knives," _one of the guards muttered, earning an offhand snort from the other.

"_You would think she was dangerous," _he replied sarcastically, the sound of his footsteps approaching just outside the door.

It was in those two seconds that Ziva decided exactly what she was going to.

She was unarmed, being held against her will by people and an organization that had let her down in so many ways. NCIS did not even know she was here, and because of her pseudo-suspension, they were out of the equation anyway.

Self-reliance was the only option.

She jumped out of her seated position and pressed herself against the wall next to the door just as it began to open.

The handle turned and the wood swung open to reveal one of the brusque men heading towards the sofa across from the desk, but he stopped in his tracks as he realized it was empty.

Ziva stepped out from behind the door silently and swung a kick to the back of his legs, causing him to lose balance long enough for her to flatten him to the ground and pin him to the floor without so much as a raised hand.

She instantly swiped the gun out of the holster at his hip, bringing it to his temple to keep him from trying anything.

There was only a moment's hesitation before she brought it down over his forehead and incapacitated him.

Her movement was mechanic, measured. But she had no time to question just why she could not feel.

She listened for approaching footsteps or the voice of the man's partner.

Nothing.

She stood up and pressed herself against the wall again, relishing the feel of the metal object held tightly in her hand.

In a flash of instinct she raised it and a gunshot echoed as the glass from the window shattered into pieces and rained onto the floor like little tinkering lights.

The other guard came running into the room with his own weapon raised, eyes frantic and shoulders tensed in readiness – he joined his unconscious partner on the floor as the person he was looking for pistol-whipped him from behind.

No going back now. And it was almost too easy.

She swiftly made her way out the door and ducked into a nearby deserted corridor just as multiple embassy security personnel began rushing to the source of the disturbance. They were shouting instructions to each other and into their radios, too focused with the possible threat to notice her less-than-perfect hiding place.

She continued down the corridor and slipped into the back staircase completely unnoticed.

Certainly not a safe environment for her, but exactly what she needed.

* * *

Eli David paced around the corridor in a blur of anger and intimidation, eyes practically glaring into the phone held against his ear.

"_How many times did I warn you of this?"_ he demanded into the receiver, sending the officers accompanying him away with a wave of the hand so he could talk in private.

Hadar sent him a wary look before he too turned his back and retreated.

"_I do not care. When did you last see her?"_

Someone on the other end says something in reply, but good or bad it serves only to piss off the Director more, and if this conversation had been in person, someone would be on the ground. And they would be in pain.

"_Find her! Now! Do what you have to do but you do not kill her! Is that understood?"_

He didn't wait for an answer as he slammed the cover his phone shut, fuming silently for a moment before stalking back to his office.

He pulled out his chair and flicked on the desk lamp, resting his head in his hands as he let out a breath of sheer frustration and irritation at the incompetent men responsible for this.

The situation had only gotten worse the second it started.

He lifted his head up and made to pick up the desk phone, but something behind him moved.

He froze.

A gun was pressed lightly into the back of his head, and with a drop of the stomach he could feel her darkly smooth presence hovering just behind him.

"Put it down," she commanded lowly, keeping her grip tight and her eyes focused. She could feel the pulse of her heart beating so intensely as her muscles tensed and the back of her neck began to sweat.

The anger acted of its own accord, and when he feels the barrel pushing harder into his skull he knows she is more than serious.

"_Ziva_," he hissed, turning his head slightly so he can see her outline out of the corner of his eye. "Think about what you are doing."

"Like you thought about Tony?" she spit back, not releasing her hold even for a second.

"Mossad had nothing to do with Agent DiNozzo's death."

There was a stagnant silence for a brief moment, and the finger, the bringer of death, itched to pull that trigger and _release_. Watch him fall apart for all the times he hurt her.

Instead she takes her other hand and pulls roughly on his collar, demanding with more than just a weapon that he rise from his chair.

He complies with a grimace as she pushes on his elbow with one hand and holds the gun against the side of his heart with the other, leading him away from the desk and out the door.

She says nothing, and he can't remember the last time he felt fear like this.

The fire in her veins burns and simmers just beneath the surface, and she is acutely aware of every breath, every footstep, every time he feels the gun against his ribcage and his sharp blue eyes contract with things she did not, _would_ not, give a shit about.

She led him up the stairs without so much as a glance in his direction, face clenched with focus and determination as she reached the door that opened to the roof.

A quick look over her shoulder to the empty staircase behind her meant she was not being followed, and she forcefully nudged him out the door and into the privacy of the deserted area in front of them.

A cool burst of air hit her face as the metal door slammed shut behind them, and her nerves tingled in anticipation as she flexed her fingers on the grip of her weapon.

It was pressed into the small of his back as she shoved him forward.

"Down," she demanded, keeping her weapon steady as he was given enough breathing room to turn around and face her.

His eyes sparked with a flash of concentration as he slowly lowered himself to the ground, kneeling.

"Hands in the air."

He shifted slightly as he raised his arms.

"Ziva," he tried calmly, trying to urge her to stop before this got out of control.

But they both knew it was already too late for that. She ignored him.

"Talk," she stated firmly, her voice not one to be challenged.

"There is nothing to say!" he spat back, tearing his gaze away from the barrel aimed in his direction and into the face of someone he was only just now realizing he had lost a long, long time ago.

She was having none of it.

"Why could you not leave me alone?" she asked fervently, the smallest trace of desperation laced in her words.

Because that, _that_, was the question that had caused the cracks in the foundation to begin with.

"You are my daughter!" he yelled back, voice tight and tense. "That is not something you can just walk away from!"

There was a stiff silence, and the glare of metal seemed to taunt them both as the weight of what she was saying fell to the ground like the setting sun behind them.

"I only walked away because it was exactly what you wanted."

The finality to it scares them both.

He says nothing in response.

"You knew this was going to happen. Shavit knew, and he reports directly to you."

"Listen to me! We had no knowledge that DiNozzo was inv—"

Truth or not, it is still a lie, and they know it.

"You _knew_! And you did nothing to stop it!"

Eli scoffed, letting out a cold laugh despite his irises flickering with heat.

"Stop what? DiNozzo was an arrogant fool. With his incompetence he was lucky to have survi—"

But he was cut off again as a kick that held absolutely nothing back swung across his face and sent his head flying to the side, splitting open his lip with a tiny sprinkle of red falling to the ground.

"TONY is the only reason I'm alive!"

Her father pressed his fingers against his rapidly swelling lip lightly, eyes narrowed but mouth silent as he continued to stare her down. His voice is hollow when he speaks.

"You loved him?"

Stop.

The edge of her weapon is pressed firmly into the middle of his forehead, and her breathing is quick, uneven almost. She flexes her fingers around it and despite the chill wind, she can't help the sweat that is clinging to the back of her shirt.

And she feels her heart begin to break.

_I guess I'll never know._

The irony is not lost on her, and she wonders if somehow the man in front of her feels it too.

Now, with her gun against his head and blood dripping down his chin, she thinks she understands why.

Because in all of the years they spent together, it was never a question that she received his approval, again and again. She was his go-to for all things necessary and dangerous. Mission after mission. Bullet after bullet. Report after report. His pride. His encouragement. His respect.

But she never got his love.

She lowers her weapon.

What is left?

"Goodbye," she says lowly, her voice dark and ultimate and sad and all things powerful.

And she leaves him with his knees digging into the ground and hands still raised in the air as he watches her retreat through the door without another word. He feels a sinking in his bones as he realizes, oh he realizes, that she is _gone_.

She should have pulled the trigger, and he hates himself for it.

* * *

_Thanks for reading, as usual :) Leave a review and it will be most appreciated! Thanks!_


	12. Skin

**Disclaimer: NCIS does not belong to uh, me.**

_Hey sorry for the time it took to update, I have no real excuse except me brain stopped working for a little bit (that's logical, right?). Anyway, it's probs water under the bridge now, considering. Enjoy the read!_

* * *

McGee sat anxiously at the edge of his seat, quietly yet efficiently assessing his surroundings.

The Israeli Embassy was not a huge building, but it was large enough so that when three armed and surly-looking personnel emerged from one of the hallways in the back, McGee was curious as to where they came from.

And judging by the tense expressions, sharp word exchange, and the heightened security he had noticed when he entered the building – it wasn't the good kind of curiosity.

The three men walked hurriedly in his direction, but it was without a second glance that they passed by where he was sitting in the main lobby and headed around another corner. The men were speaking rapidly in their native language, but there was one thing that caught his ear and made him freeze.

_David_.

One of them had definitely said it.

McGee rose from his chair and quickly followed them, ignoring the protests of the secretaries (or whoever they were) telling him Director David wasn't ready to see him yet and he would have to return to his seat to wait.

As if he had really come here to shoot the breeze with Eli David.

He continued down the hallway unnoticed by the people he was following, increasing his pace almost to a light jog so he could catch up with them.

Maybe what he was doing was stupid, but thoughts like these rarely ever hold true when it involves people you know you would do stupid things for anyway. And he wouldn't give up on her, or _him_.

"Hey!" he shouted, getting each of the guards to simultaneously stop.

They all watched him approach warily, hands lingering on their sides near their weapons.

"I'm looking for Ziva David," he stated firmly, closing the last bit of distance between them and trying his best to look the part he was playing.

The suspicious glance they shared with each other was less than subtle.

"Never heard of her," one of them replied in thickly accented English, the tone of his voice matching the warning in his eyes.

"Right. But you were just talking about her."

There was a pause, and McGee didn't back down from the glares they were sending him.

"She is not here."

Oh, okay.

Not for a second.

McGee took a step closer to the guy doing the talking, voice lowering to a more serious level.

"Look I know she's here. Just tell me where she is."

The man stepped forward himself and pushed McGee back none too lightly, eyes narrowed.

"You need to leave. Now."

In a flash of anger and the memory of why he was here in the first place McGee leapt forward, grabbing the man by the edges of his suit jacket and bringing him right into his face.

Guns were out and pointed at him without hesitation.

"Where the hell is she?" he demanded, knowing he was losing time with each passing second.

The man gave no answer, but he was saved the trouble by the door to the stairway swinging open with a small metallic creak, revealing two people McGee recognized right away.

One was Officer Hadar, looking just as intense as depicted in the photo that popped up when McGee ran his prints left behind in Ziva's apartment. It seemed like a lucky break then, but now? Not so much.

The other was Ziva, and she looked like she would kill to be anywhere but being dragged along by Hadar.

"Ziva!" called McGee loudly, releasing the other man and ignoring their weapons all still trained on him.

Both she and Hadar stopped at the sight before them, minds calculating by the millisecond and faces lighting up in surprise.

Hadar tightened his hold on her elbow and refused to let her move, but she was talking and working through her options before he could even consider doing anything else.

"McGee?" she asked incredulously, trying to pry away from the person holding her firmly in place. "Get away from here before my father finds an excuse to hur—"

Hadar's hand came out of nowhere and the resulting smack against her cheek and the furious hiss in Hebrew was enough to send a spark of fire through the NCIS agent.

"Stop!"

He hadn't even realized that his own gun had been drawn in an instant.

"Let her go Hadar," he said calmly, feeling the heat of five gazes turned instantly on him.

Hadar scoffed at him, and there was something beneath Ziva's look of fury and reluctance that cut deeper than fear of the situation. Why was she going along with this?

"NCIS has no authority here. Director Vance knows this."

"Vance didn't send me. And you need to let her go," he reiterated coolly, tightening his grip on his weapon.

"Officer David is under arrest. She stays here."

A glare, a curse, a caustic laugh. Anything that would have reflected the defiance and independence that had come to characterize his Israeli friend.

Instead, she closes her eyes briefly and releases a breath. Unbeatable mask slipping away.

"For what?"

Both men are staring each other down, but there is no answer offered to the question. Because they both know it's horseshit.

"I'll make you a deal," started McGee, clarity and finality to his tone. This was his only plan. And regardless of circumstances, consequences, or all the risky things he's ever done or ever will do, he wasn't leaving without her.

He made up his mind a long time ago.

"A deal?" repeated the Mossad official, looking arrogant and apprehensive at the same time.

"You let her go and we forget we ever saw each other."

Stop.

Silence.

Hesitate.

"Why?"

"You kidnapped a federal agent."

_Not to mention that your operatives are here illegally. And that my friend is dead because of them._

There was another charged pause of consideration, and with a harsh nod Hadar signaled for the guards behind McGee to lower their weapons.

He was still glaring as he released the woman in question, pushing her forward lightly and reaching into his inside pockets to return the weapons he had confiscated from her.

She took them back without meeting his eyes at all, and that said more than any stinging words ever could have.

McGee lowered his weapon as she came forward to join him, but he kept it gripped loosely in his hand as he sent a last look to Hadar and the other men.

He was positive their distrust was mutual.

But fuck it.

They were not coming back here.

* * *

The night was still and quiet as they ascended the steps to McGee's apartment, and the soft swish of the lock turning and the door swinging open was the only real sound from the sky around them. Neither person spoke as they stiffly entered the threshold, and neither felt the need to.

But then, that was a lie.

Because between her falling apart with a burning trail in her wake and him trying desperately to pick up the pieces, there had been too much silence.

He still can't find anything to say as he sets his bag down next to the kitchen counter, and for whatever reason his mind is telling him that it's enough that he got her out of there. And that he brought her here, to safety, with him. It should be enough.

But it's not. It's _not_.

She stands by the window alone, back turned and posture completely cut off.

And she can't describe it.

The feeling, the pervasive feeling. She can almost see it in her hands, the way the light from the moon pales the olive skin, if only slightly. The glass is cool, and the scene outside hollow. There are a few lights, some cars, even a few people.

But it means nothing.

This was it, wasn't it?

She'd felt the shock – the cold cold sting of being blindsided by the so unexpected (but so expected, in a way). She literally had frozen, had watched his body collapse to the ground. Had let his killer get away. Blood on her hands as she let _him_ get away.

She'd felt the guilt – the squeezing pressure, the questions, the disgust. She had let someone hurt her, let herself fall into a mess she felt she needed. Had looked in the mirror and wondered why it didn't work.

She'd felt the anger – the burn, the flowing hatred that made her that much more dangerous and that much more vulnerable at the same time. Had sought out anyone and everyone that had a hand in her partner's death, and had meant, truly _meant_, to cause them pain.

But now, as she fingers the folded photograph she left in her jacket, she feels something else for the first time.

His young ruffled brown hair, arms clinging to the dog playfully, mother caught between love and mischief.

_For you_.

Now, now she feels the loss.

Her heart aches and feels heavy against her chest, and something catches in her throat.

No matter how many times she told herself he was dead, no matter how many punches she threw or took, no matter how she fought and she lost or she won or broke or stood strong, it never hit her.

Until now.

_Tony_ was gone.

And truth?

She may as well be dying anyway.

"Do you need anything?" asked McGee quietly from behind her, and he could only watch stoically as he received no response and she kept her back facing him.

He waited for a moment before clearing his throat awkwardly, moving to pick up his bag. He could try in the morning after everything had settled somewhat, right?.

"I'll just uh, get some sheets for you and be right back with that…" he trailed, stepping away from his position and heading towards the closet.

But the smallest of movements stopped him in his tracks.

"Tim," she whispered suddenly, voice thick and full of something dark but sweet.

She was facing him now, arms crossed against her chest tightly as if holding herself together. Her deep brown eyes meet his with a dulled mixture of fear and acceptance. Through the lines of tears running softly down her face, she shines.

She makes no sound and she does not shake, but something between them falls in an instant.

He reacts easily and without a word, closing the distance slowly and with the sincere compassion that made him who he was. She finds his comfort in similar silence, letting him embrace her as he pulls her head into his chest.

It's not about need or want, and never has been.

It was about nothing, so by extension, everything. Them.

She cries into his shoulder without solace, silently, choking on things held back too long. He lets her do it, pulls her closer as whatever is real falls into place.

It falls, and it hurts.

_For you_.

* * *

_Thanks for reading people! As per usual, reviews are always welcome and much appreciated! Happy Mother's Day ;)_


	13. Changes

**Disclaimer: NCIS is not mine. Yesh.**

_Does anyone else ever have problems with their statistics? Seriously sometimes my story traffic graph...just doesn't record anything. It did it once when I know there was traffic because people were reviewing/adding to alerts or whatever. And now it's doing it again. Oh well, not that big a deal, it just confuses me. Sorry for the ramble...read on!_

* * *

The lights of the elevator immediately darkened to a low blue hue as Gibbs flicked the emergency switch down with a demeanor dangerously close to irritation.

At 0700, McGee felt he really should have remembered to take the stairs so as to avoid this confrontation , at least until he had some coffee and didn't look like the walking dead.

He frowned at the thought – not the best choice of words.

His boss turned to face him with an expression as unreadable as always, but McGee had very little doubt as to what this was about. But the lack of an impending headslap did cause some confusion.

"You ignored a direct order…" the older man began, his voice quiet but firm. Blue eyes locked onto their target.

Tim sighed, turning away from the elevator doors so that he was meeting the accusatory gaze head on. He stiffened his shoulders, knowing that underneath the disobedience and the stern disapproval from his boss, Tim still never would have left Ziva in that mess alone.

Guess that meant he had more responsibility. And more to deal with.

"Boss I know you told me to stay here," he started, keeping his tone neutral enough so that maybe this wouldn't end as badly as predicted.

Gibbs raised his eyebrows.

"But with Mossad being in DC again…I wasn't gonna take that chance. Ziva wasn't answering her phone and when I got to her apartment the place was trashed and there was blood on the floor. It was either drag the team into it and waste time, or go by myself to try and help her."

Still nothing from his boss but that cold stare.

"When Hadar's prints came up on the scanner, I went straight to the Embassy. And I was lucky to get there when I did."

He kept it to himself that he really has no idea what would have happened had he not put the pieces together as quickly as he did.

"Look I know I should've called you, but I did what I had to do to get her out. DiNozzo's Rule Number One . Never sit on the sidelines when one of your pe—"

"You done?"

Oh.

McGee stares in silence, small frown on his face as he digests the unexpected reaction from Gibbs. He waits.

"I only told you to stay to satisfy Vance. I would have done the same thing."

Hold up.

_Wow_.

Not really what he was expecting (was it?).

"You mean…you knew I was going to go alone. And you let me do it?"

"I trusted you to handle it."

More silence, mixed with a little shock. Shit. From Gibbs, that was like a blessing.

He was still staring like an idiot when Gibbs flipped the switch again, sending the elevator moving with a metallic jolt. The doors opened, and he watched as Gibbs strode out with a purpose, stopping only when his junior agent didn't follow right away.

Was that seriously it?

"You coming?"

He nodded quickly and stepped through the doors to follow his boss, not knowing where they were going or what they were going to do. And it didn't matter.

There was trust.

He let out the tiniest of smirks to himself, replaying the outcome of the conversation in his head as he made his way to the bullpen.

More to deal with indeed.

* * *

He heard her before he saw her.

The low shuffling of the stool against the cement floor, the clink of a mug, something falling over, a curse muttered in another language.

Unexpected? Not so much.

But it was never easy when they showed up here like this, looking for something they would never admit to, searching for something they weren't sure they even wanted to find.

She sits in her corner and watches him with disinterested eyes, head feeling too loose around her neck as she brought her head away from the mug to see him descend down the stairs. His steps are slow and measured, and the creak of the stair as he gets closer triggers something.

It sounds like _him_.

For a second, a stupid stupid second, she thinks it's him. No real reason really, but that's the way it goes. She looks up, hears the steps, and her mind flips. It's not even hope, no flicker of doubt and that sweet rising feeling. It's just a thought, and it happens.

But then she remembers how.

Jim Beam. Oh Jim, Jim, Beam. What a friendship this is.

Truly, she had not come here for that. If she wanted alcohol that badly she could have drank herself stupid in her own apartment, or at a bar (though that didn't work out so well last time). That was not the reason she came.

She sees Gibbs staring at her, waiting, and she suddenly laughs to herself. Low and soft almost.

Well, she actually didn't know why she came. And she was drinking anyway.

"Ziver?"

Huh. Ziver.

Been a long time since she'd heard that. It didn't sound right. Too thick on the tongue, too slow. Just not right.

Her eyes narrow with something warm, her mouth twitches into familiarity, and she takes a finger away from the mug of solace and points it at him. She shakes it a little, and this feeling comes too easily.

"You knew I would come?"

He smiles that false little smile-frown, turns his head to the side, and continues to stare. No, he won't guess, but he will go along with whatever is playing through her head.

"I came to swallow. In my grief."

Another low laugh, so dark in its nature but light all the same. Easy.

"That is what Americans do in their movies, yes?"

Jimmy is that you talking again?

"People wallow in their grief. Not swallow."

His voice is quiet, reassuring, but something sits beneath the surface. Something that disapproves, that questions, that wonders.

She brushes him off with a lazy wave of the hand, using the other to tilt the mug towards her. She moves it a little and watches the reddish brown liquid swill around the sides, circling and tinkling against the ceramic slightly before settling again.

It preoccupies her until she brings it up to her lips, reveling in the burn and that inexplicable rush.

As she brings it back down she releases a breath and can almost hear its incredible stillness. The fumes from the liquor mix with the musky wood and sawdust around her, and her nose tingles as she suddenly feels that calm.

Is this what guilt smells like?

_Whiskey. Wood. Wallow._

Stupid.

Tony had said something like that once.

Huh. Tony.

Stupid.

And still wrong.

Gibbs, who had been strangely (not really) stoic the whole time, was now close and standing right next to her, blue eyes iced and curious.

When did that happen?

"Something you wanna talk about?"

She doesn't say anything back, in fact doesn't even register the question. Her brain is stuck in one way, or maybe all the ways. All the ways put together and she feels like she's fighting smoke here.

Smoke.

Smoke is dark and thick and makes you change your direction, battles with you from start to finish. Until it's thin and wispy and elusive and by that point it doesn't matter anymore. Still can't win.

He's still hovering.

Her eyes are distant and sparkling with something unknown, and when she reaches for the mug again she doesn't realize that Gibbs has replaced the liquid with water and he says nothing as she drinks it down without another thought.

But he knows it's too late for precautions. She's already gone.

And how long had she been down here before he arrived?

Without warning she jumps off the stool, taking a noticeable second longer than usual to steady herself as her feet come into contact with solid ground. Her eyes are looking without really seeing anything, and she feels the blurred sensation of spinning outside her own body and yet moving from within.

She almost laughs again.

Almost.

Stupid.

"Your boat is broken," she says suddenly, swinging her head back around to see his reaction to her statement while gently, perhaps unintentionally, leaning on the wooden frame. Pieces of it were broken or snapped where he had punished it with his foot all those nights ago.

Given her state of mind, she doesn't comprehend the tightening of the face or the uncomfortable scratch against his still-unshaved scruff.

She sends him a small smile, feeling the heat glowing in her chest and unable, unwilling, to fight against it.

"I will fix it for you."

She half-walks, half-glides back to the workbench, knowingly ungraceful in her movements as she scans the area for whatever she was looking for. There is no recognition until her fingers come across her own knife, which she had forgotten she had even taken out in the first place.

Why she thinks this is the right tool, is not shared.

It takes more effort than necessary for her to focus on it as she flips the blade open with a little click, and within a few weighted seconds Gibbs is holding onto her wrists and her hands as he gently takes it away from her. She watches him do it with hunched shoulders and keeps her eyes on her hands as he puts a sanding block into her palm instead.

He is scared of what she might do. She can feel it in his grip.

She shrugs, still staring at her own hands.

"Does not matter Gibbs. They do not work."

Oh.

She doesn't even realize the disconnect between her thoughts and her words, and for her, that speaks more to her current state than anything else.

"What doesn't?" he asks quietly, watching her with _that_ look.

"My fingers," she replied slowly, turning them around and examining them. "It is hard to fight with a knife."

He suddenly feels a simultaneous stab of pity and the urge to comfort, knowing that whatever was going on in her head was nothing short of painful – and that talking about it was rare thing.

He stands still and waits. The rock is back in place.

And she's still looking at her hands.

"Salim smashed them when I would not talk."

Pause.

Inhale.

Shit.

She works her way to the edge of the boat-in-progress, taking care to sand with the grain and not against it (she ends up backwards anyway).

He lets her do it, and doesn't say anything.

Did _she_ even know she said anything?

"I never told Tony about it."

Huh.

Don't ask don't tell doesn't work so well between partners.

Stupid.

And the truth here, the real truth, the honest-to-god truth that sits at the bottom of her stomach and makes her feel like she lost something…is that she can't pinpoint exactly what _it_ she is even talking about.

She points another finger at him, waving it around slightly.

"But you think he knew? Yes," she says more to herself than anything, emitting another low laugh that burns in her throat. "Maybe."

Maybe what?

Yes, no, nothing.

Is there a point?

She stops moving completely, letting the hand that had previously been halfheartedly sanding the wood fall limp against her side.

He has remained silent and strong in his demeanor since he came down the steps to find her in her own little mess, and even in her lack of sobriety she is instantly brought to awareness when he calls her name.

"Ziva."

His tone is sharp, meaningful, and smooth. She can't ignore it, and does not want to.

"He loved you."

Huh.

Maybe that.

He says it like it is supposed to be easy, like it was a new revelation that was so old in its essence. Like that would somehow explain things, or erase the need to. A blanket statement for her pain, her loss, her hurt. Like it was that simple.

No.

Love is a funny thing.

Described in three words or three thousand, pictured in one image or a slew of them. Some people feel it, some people don't, some people think they do and never know the difference. Between brothers, between lovers, between friends. Point? One could go on for hours and hours and hours and still never get it.

_You'll never get it_.

She said that once. Meant it.

Doesn't matter. In the end, when it comes, it doesn't matter. She said something like that once, and meant that too. Maybe she was lying.

But maybe not.

They were partners, and that was the basis of their relationship since day one – well maybe not day _one_, because on day one they were nothing more than people in each other's way. And when exactly that changed, she didn't know.

Gibbs bent down to her level as he watched her press her back against the frame of the boat and slide down to the floor, eyes closed with thoughts too close to the center of everything.

When it comes to _them_, there is no easy explanation.

Love?

She would have died for him, and he for her.

So was it that simple?

Not really.

But yes.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Leave a review and enjoy this nice day in May :)_


	14. Heat

**Disclaimer: Same as usual. NCIS not mine.**

_I still think my traffic graph/meter is broken. It is recording nothing, which doesn't fit the trend. I sound like a whiney child lol I NEED TO KNOW HOW MUCH ATTENTION I'M GETTING! Nah it's not that big of a deal, just confusing. Whateva, keep reading :)_

* * *

Ziva fumbled through the contents of her bag haphazardly, sighing and furrowing her brow as she tried to find the object that was currently eluding her and her angry fingers.

Keys. To her apartment.

Her hair was messy, her shirt hung a little loose, and there were bags under her eyes, but she faithfully ignored the annoyingly curious look her not-so-neighborly neighbor was giving her as she stood by her door in frustration.

Oh yes, walk of shame, but not like that.

And she was too tired for anything else anyway.

Finally her hand closed around the clinking metal of the keys, and she hurriedly inserted the right one into the handle and pushed open the door, thinking of nothing but Advil and some hot tea.

As far as hangovers go it was definitely not her worst, but waking too early to a house a little too empty and driving herself home a little too quickly wasn't exactly pleasant, either.

She dropped her bag on the counter and was content to leave the lights off until her foot came into contact with something on the floor, the object making a paper-like sliding noise as she stopped in her tracks and flipped on the lights.

Squinting at the sudden brightness, she bent over and picked up the object with confusion deep in her eyes that still felt too heavy. It was a large brown envelope, addressed with a single word: _Ziva_.

Had someone slid the thing under her door?

She turned it over in her hand a few times before ripping it open, pulling out the glossy contents and leaving the packaging strewn on the counter next to her bag.

Glossy?

She took a closer look.

Photographs – several of them. Plus a small little slip of paper that looked like it had been ripped out of a notepad in haste.

_I took these in secret to use as leverage against Morales incase we needed it. Never thought I would be using them for this. If I had known what they were planning, I would have stopped it. If you need to, I think you will remember where to find me. Please believe me, _

_- Levi_

Officer Shavit had sent these? Why?

To find the answer she brought the enlarged photographs closer, observing them closely.

First image. Morales exchanging something non-visible with Shavit's partner, whose name she still did not know.

Second image. Morales and Shavit's partner alone in the same car that sped away after Tony's murder.

Next image. Morales, dressed in all black and carrying a ski mask, giving a gun to Shavit's partner.

And there were more, all of Morales and Shavit's partner interacting with each other.

She slammed the pictures down on the counter, taking a breath to steady herself as she recalled the web of bullshit she had to weave through _just_ to find out the one, single, lethal piece of information that she had been searching for since the beginning.

Mossad knew.

Maybe not Hadar, maybe not her father, maybe not even Shavit – though it was hard to believe. But on some level, they were responsible.

And once again they had a hand in the death of someone she cared about.

Instantly she reached for her bag to search for her cell phone, regretting throwing everything without a second thought this morning because the feeling rising inside of her was so urgent and anxious that she felt she was wasting time just by breathing.

When she found it she flipped it open and quickly dialed for Gibbs, praying he would answer.

It rang.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

And then – voicemail.

_Damn_ it.

Why wasn't he answering?

She dialed the next number that came to mind, but upon hearing the person on the other end gasp in delight, she thought perhaps McGee would have been a better choice.

_Ziva! You have no idea how happy I am that you called! I was so worried! McGee told me about what happened but he's always so busy and Gibbs just keeps telling me you're on leave, and Ducky k—"_

"Abby."

The Goth sighed into the phone but the sound of her name effectively cut off her rant.

_Are you okay?_

Hardly, but it was best to keep such things to herself.

"I'm fine. But I need you to do something for me."

_Name it. Abby Sciuto is all ears_.

"Can you put Gibbs on the phone? I need to talk to him."

_I can't, he and McGee left like ten minutes ago! Did you try his cell phone?_

This really was not a favorable situation. And it seemed to be getting worse.

"No answer. Do you know where he went?"

There was a brief silence, and Ziva could almost feel the hesitation through the phone.

_Uhhh, yeah….but I really don't think I'm supposed to tell you. I know it sounds dumb, but, Gibbs kind of…specifically…asked me to keep it to myself. So…_

Oh definitely getting worse.

"This is important. I will pretend I found out on my own."

_Are you sure?_

"Abby. Where is he?" she asked firmly, sounding more like a demand than a question.

_Alright fine. But you didn't hear this from me! McGee thinks he found an address for those two Mossad operatives and they headed out to somewhere near Fairfax to find it. I have an exact location if you really n—_

But she was cut off by the hollow lull of the dial tone, the person she was talking to already having hung up.

On the other line, Ziva flipped the phone shut, shoving it back into her bag as she picked it back up to head for the door again.

She knew where she was going. She knew personally that Mossad used to have a safehouse in Fairfax, and Shavit had said if she remembered - meaning past tense, meaning she'd been there before - she would be able to find him.

And she definitely needed to find him.

* * *

The wheels of her car squealed to a stop as she slammed on the brakes next to the curb facing the house, throwing it into park and throwing herself out the door with urgency.

Gibbs's driving rivaled her own, and he had a ten minute head-start. That meant she was extremely limited when it came to time.

Of course, her familiarity with the place was an advantage.

Her brisk pace led her straight to the front steps, and it was without any hesitation on her focused features that she pounded fiercely on the door, hoping, _needing_ someone to be here.

Shavit _had_ to be here.

It should have decreased some of her anxiety when someone finally came to the door, but it was with a tightness clinging to her chest that she realized that was impossible.

This had every possibility of not going very well.

The man standing in front of her with power and suspicion in his eyes was not Shavit, but she recognized him to be the man from the photographs – his partner. And he was pointing a gun at her.

"Who are you?" he demanded, making it clear that he absolutely meant whatever he was saying.

"Ziva David. I need to speak with Officer Shavit."

"Not until I know exactly who you are. And what you are doing here."

She eyed him and his weapon wearily, jaw clenched as anger began to seep in.

"You know who I am," she accused, glaring at him. If this _fuck_ tried to deny anything else, then all of them would be in some very serious trouble.

But the man was saved the trouble of answering by someone from the background interrupting them.

"Yossef! Put it away and shut the door! Please, come in," he ushered to Ziva, signaling for his partner to step aside with a short nod of the head.

Ziva stepped in the door quickly, ignoring the still blatantly irritated stare the man named Yossef was sending her.

"Ziva, shalom," he said lowly, bending down to give her a quick peck on the cheek. "It is good to see you. It's been too long."

Under the circumstances, she couldn't exactly say the same thing.

Yossef, standing behind her awkwardly, suddenly made his disapproval known and switched to his native language in hopes of excluding her.

"_You know this woman?"_ he asked indignantly, moving to a slightly threatening position next to the two of them.

She could almost smirk at his stupidity, and she was already beginning to hate him.

"_Do you have so few friends that you cannot even recognize when one greets another?"_ she spat out evenly, surprising him with the fluency he had not foreseen.

"Please, both of you," called Shavit, putting up a hand to stop them. "_Ziva, this is Officer Ayalon_. _Yossef, this is Officer David. Or, now she is Special Agent David. We worked together many years ago."_

Despite learning the identity of the newcomer, Ayalon was less than impressed by Ziva. And the feeling went both ways.

Shavit broke the tense silence.

"_You're here about Agent DiNozzo?"_

At the sound of the name, Ayalon visibly became alerted, attention snapped into utmost focus. Ziva sent him a sideways glance, intentionally speaking only to Shavit.

"_How do I know you are telling the truth?"_

From the way his shoulders dropped and his gaze softened, she wondered if maybe her distrust was warranted. But then, maybe he was just as skilled in deception as every other person that had ever let her down.

"_I admit, DiNozzo was not very well liked in Mossad. But I know he was important to you, and I swear to you that I would not have just let him die knowing I could stop it. Please, you have to trust me."_

She was not sure what triggered it, not sure why it felt so easy. Not sure why she felt maybe she could believe him, but she did.

And it didn't help that Ayalon looked more and more uncomfortable the more Shavit talked.

He was definitely hiding something. And it definitely wasn't good.

What now?

Any and all thoughts were immediately stopped as the sound of shouting and the door being forcefully kicked open permeated the room, causing all three of them to draw their weapons at the intrusion.

"NCIS! Drop the guns!"

"Federal agents! Don't move!"

Gibbs. With McGee. And the looks of shock that greeted her was nothing she was proud of.

No one moved, and no one lowered their weapons.

"Ziva? What are you doing?" asked Gibbs, too quietly for her taste.

She absolutely hated, _hated_, the fear in his voice. Did he really think she would betray them so easily? After everything?

"Please Gibbs, you have to let them talk."

Her gun was still in the air, pointed at her two colleagues. Shit, what was she _doing_?

"These men were in on your partner's murder and you wanna defend them?"

"You do not know the whole story. _Please_," she pleaded, her voice remaining strong but laced with desperation. Because this was definitely a desperate situation, and she felt more than lives were on the line.

Gibbs stared at her blankly, glancing between her and the men behind her before finally conceding. He lowered his Sig. To his right, McGee did the same.

"Alright. You two," he began, nodding to the Mossad officers behind Ziva. "Weapons on the ground. Kick them to me."

Knowing that this was no time to challenge what was unfolding, both of them slowly placed their sidearms on the floor, sliding them over to Gibbs, who stopped them with his foot without taking his eyes off the men.

"Talk."

Ayalon turned his head and sent his partner an intense look that closely resembled a scowl, but said nothing. He waited for Shavit to speak instead, who took a deep breath before beginning.

"Officer Ayalon and I are here to monitor the movements of a Lebanese national believed to be seeking refuge in Washington. Gangs usually know everything about people on their turf, so we went to one for information. Morales was willing to help us for a small fee."

"Until DiNozzo showed up."

Shavit nodded.

"Yes. He thought he was breaking up a drug deal."

"So, what? You walked away just like that?"

"Morales was very angry and said a lot of things. I never knew he was planning to act on them."

Gibbs glared, cocking his neck in disbelief, blue eyes narrowed and skeptical.

"Someone knew. All of his gang brothers remember seeing someone matching your description hanging around that night."

Ziva frowned, feeling the tightness of the air around her. Not good. She knew exactly what was going through Shavit's head – take the fall for something he didn't do, or turn in his own partner.

"I had no part in this," he reaffirmed, meeting Gibbs squarely in the eye.

"You still lying to me?"

Shavit said nothing in response, just held the look with a mutual silence and frozen with anticipation. He couldn't make the choice. Ziva knew it. He knew it.

But Ayalon was the one at fault. And she hated him for it. So she'd make the choice _for_ him.

"Gibbs. Officer Shavit is innocent. He sent me pictures – he tried to help me."

Gibbs glanced to Shavit and then back to Ziva.

"Pictures. Of what?"

There was a brief moment of silence, and she could feel the glare burning into her back from the man behind her to her left. Ziva sighed.

"His partner. He met with Morales the night Tony was killed."

Gibbs turned his stare onto Officer Ayalon angrily, sharing the look of fire.

"You saying this guy allowed all this to happen?"

Yossef ignored the rest of the conversation between Ziva and her boss, turning his attention to Shavit and flinging insults and accusations at him in furious Hebrew.

Even to someone who didn't understand the language, it was enough to convince Gibbs of the man's guilt.

"Officer Ayalon?" asked Gibbs, his tone low and menacing. "Outside, with me."

Cryptic, dangerous. And that was the point.

He glared, but began to move forward.

Ziva turned her head slightly to share a look with Shavit, but was interrupted by the sudden and loud yelling of McGee from his position by the door.

"No no WAIT!"

Ziva instantly spun on her heel in the direction of McGee's frightened gaze, eyes coming into contact with the glint of metal before flawlessly raising her weapon to defend herself.

A split-second too late.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Not sure why it always ends up being Sunday night when I update (well, Sunday night for some of us). Anyway, leave a review! Thanks again!_


	15. Hold

**Disclaimer: NCIS does not belong to me. **

_Today I got nothing. Except that I had a delicious lunch. Thanks for giving this your time!_

* * *

Ziva made no move as the tip of the knife pierced the skin and the blade was thrust in too easily.

She made no move as he pinned her against the wall, knuckles clenched in anger as he gripped the handle even tighter, glaring brown eyes flickering with hate and desperation. Just inches away from her own.

Her gun slipped from her hand and fell to the floor.

She made no move as the breath caught in her throat and she smelled the fear seeping in and heard yelling around her. Someone was yelling, shouting. Too frantically. Thick and unclear.

And she made no move as he quickly pulled the blade back out, metal and fingers stained with a red that seemed too bright. Too fresh.

Someone was still yelling and suddenly the shouts were mixed with the crack of gunfire, bullets repeatedly exploding out of the barrel and into the flesh of the man still too close, splattering her with red that mixed with her own.

Some of it landed on her face and sprayed onto her shirt, and she didn't even realize she was sliding down the crimson-stained wall until she was sitting, half-crumpled, staring.

Someone had _really_ wanted that man to die. And dead he was, riddled with bullet holes and spilling over onto the hardwood. It left a deep pool beneath him, and Ziva almost felt as if she could feel it.

But that wasn't his blood.

It was hers.

She was leaking. Leaking all over the place. It seeps through her fingers, clutching the wound on her lower abdomen. She tries to stop it, but it keeps flowing, and she can't stop it. Still leaking. Still bleeding. _Dying?_

It can't be that easy.

Shavit is looking at her with fear in his eyes, crouching with his hands in the air. Defending himself from the gunfire that had claimed his partner, bleeding out in front of him. He tries to say something to her but either her ears don't work or the sound is drowned out, because she hears nothing.

"You! Hey!"

Someone else is shouting, Shavit turns his head in attention. The voice is dangerous, commanding, and low in the throat.

"Get the fuck out of here! Now!"

Gibbs.

She thinks McGee might be yelling too, because there's no way just one person can sound like that.

It is too hard to focus as Shavit immediately obeys, springing up from his position as he heads for the door, hands clinging together in confusion and blood still spattered on his face.

No one watches him leave, and no one watches to make sure he does.

She is still staring at the dead body in front of her, his hand draped awkwardly over his torso and wetness oozing from the holes in his head and chest. Some of it has spilled in her direction and mixes with what she can't stop from leaking out of her, and she is literally sitting in blood.

Too much of it.

By now it has soaked through her shirt and it begins to show on her jacket. Some of it has stained her pant leg, leaving crimson streaks and a smeared handprint. Handprint?

Gibbs.

He was kneeling next to her, one hand pressed over hers, clinging to her stomach, other hand held against her shoulder to keep her from falling over anymore.

She wonders what she must look like, because she can't remember the last time Gibbs has stared at her with eyes like that.

Her eyelids close as she tries to shut it out, and the man leaning over her shakes her shoulder none too lightly, anxiety in his grip, fear in his face. Trying to keep her awake for as long as possible. Afraid of the state she is in, and the state she is slowly falling into.

Fear.

She knows she should not feel it. Certainly, she has experienced far worse. But she can't help but feel as if she is losing, losing so much.

"Stay with me Ziver."

Her blood, her fight, her hope. Her life?

No.

Can't feel the hand that rests on her thigh.

She is afraid, but not for herself.

Terrified.

"McGee! ETA on the ambulance!"

Terrified that she will never see _him_ again.

"I don't know there's some kind of pile-up on the interstate. They're still 45 minutes out!"

He died days ago, too long ago to be in denial, too long ago not to have felt the true effects of his absence. It makes no sense, and she has no explanation, but the fear, the undying and burning fear that Tony has been taken away from her permanently tightens in her veins and coils around her heart.

"No time to wait. Get the car!"

Why is Gibbs still shouting?

He stands up and moves away for a second, looking for something. She doesn't know what, and she makes no effort to turn her head and watch his search.

But his temporary absence from her line of vision leaves the view of the dead man open, and as she stares at him and his empty body she realizes it is not fear she feels.

It is hate.

She hates him more than Morales, more than the man who caught them from behind on a warm night turned cold, more than the man who pumped three slugs into her partner's chest. She hates him more than her father and the entire distant disappointment he was.

She hates him more than she could ever hate them.

Because he knew. He knew and did nothing.

And his only reason?

He cared more about his own damn mission than anyone who got caught in the crossfire, whether they deserved it or not.

Her gun, now too stained with dull red that marked the floor next to where it fell, is within reach of the arm clutching her wound tightly. Her forehead is damp and her hands are shaking, but she shifts her torso away from the wall and takes it in her hand as she repositions herself so she is hovering over him.

It does not make sense.

He is dead. They are both already dead.

But she is afraid and knows in that moment, knows in her bones, that she will never see him again. And she hates this man for it.

She presses the barrel against his forehead, holding tighter and tighter as her grip threatens to slacken, breathing heavily against the effort this is costing her.

She closes her eyes, inhales. Tries to picture him living and breathing, tries to picture him alone, angry, with nowhere to go.

Tries to picture life leaving him by her hand.

"Ziva!"

But he is already dead, had already wounded her so.

No vengeance, no fire in her veins. No brave of heart, no powerful eyes and powerful strikes. Not even sweet, and neither warm nor cold.

Just blood. And bullet holes. From a wound that was hers, and a gun that was not.

If death is a terrible price, then what is this?

Gibbs is back by her side again, kneeling down again, saying soft things to her as he presses a towel against her side – her own clammy palm wasn't enough pressure to stem the flow.

He gently takes the gun out of her hand and places it back on the floor before he reaches out a steady hand and physically turns her head away from the body, towards him. Him and his ice eyes. Ice eyes on fire.

It takes no genius to see that she barely stand - let alone walk - and he carries the majority of her weight as he lifts her off the ground from beneath her arms, draping one of them across his shoulder as they stand together.

He takes the first step forward, dragging her along as she focuses all of her effort on breathing and not keeling over. The walking is more difficult than he thought it would be, and for her every step seems unreal.

Spiraling out maybe. She left too much of herself behind. In more ways than one.

Still bleeding?

She does not feel it.

They are right in the doorway when she deliberately stops him, refusing to move her feet and leaning against the doorframe. Stares at him with tired eyes, tired mind.

Too tired.

"Gibbs," she says quietly as he gazes at her, questioning.

Her voice is low, and rough, but it is clear.

"Let me go. Please."

He turns to face her, still holding onto her tightly. Sees her fading brown eyes, the dark red seeping through her jacket and down her leg, and knows. Knows that she is asking for more than just the release of his grip.

Somehow that hurts more than watching Ayalon run a knife through her.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs was not making this choice again.

_Take care of yourself_.

No.

"Come on."

Without warning he bends his knees and grabs her other arm, draping her entire body over his shoulders as he was trained to do in the Marines. She makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a stifled groan at the pain of movement, and he hurries forward to where McGee is waiting with the car.

Quickly the younger agent opens the backdoor, allowing his boss to lay his colleague down across the seat before the man runs to take the wheel.

"Take care of her!" he yells loudly, throwing the car into drive before McGee had fully shut the door behind him as he climbed into the vehicle.

Gibbs was pulling away and speeding crazily as McGee adjusted himself around his injured friend, muttering a low apology as he lifted her back and rested her against the side window, legs spread over his lap.

She looks terrible, and he can't remember the last time she had been hurt this badly.

With one hand he presses the already stained towel against the wound in her abdomen, and with the other he wraps his fingers around her own absentmindedly.

Her eyes keep falling shut and reopening slowly, and he knows they are all running out of time, one way or another.

"Just hang in there, okay?" he half-whispers to her, not expecting a response.

But with her eyes still closed she squeezes his hand lightly, and does not let go - though he cares little for the symbolism as he listens to her uneven breathing and prays this isn't the end.

Can't think about it. Will not think about it. Please don't think about it.

How did it get this far?

Take care of her.

_Keep her alive_.

He tastes desperation on his tongue and on his lips and wishes with every fiber of his being that Tony were here.

Please.

Gibbs finally slams to a stop in front of the ER, yells a few more things, then runs around to open the door for McGee, who lifts Ziva from underneath her legs and quickly heads for the doors with his boss following close behind.

Her eyes are falling out of focus and the glare of the bright red Emergency sign above the door is slightly blurred, but she watches dully as it gets closer and closer.

Out of the blue, for no real reason, she thinks of Ari.

And how maybe he was right.

By the time they are inside and shouting for a doctor, she is out.

* * *

_Muchas gracias para leer! Would love to hear your feedback! Adios!_


	16. Take

**Disclaimer: NCIS does not belong to me.**

_I'm really sorry for the time this took - I was crazy busy but lol who cares? Yesh, this is short. Sawi, but read on!_

_

* * *

_

It had been an hour and a half since McGee had moved from his seat.

He was flanked by Abby on the right, alone in her own world of worry and unfazed by his lack of anything. She was crying softly to herself, having already moved through the flurry of panic she couldn't help but fall into at times like this.

For no apparent reason at all, trying to offer her comfort made him feel sick.

So he let her alone as her damp dark features so demanded.

Gibbs was two seats down on his left, leaning forward in his chair and hands folded around his coffee. True to his nature, he remained calm and impassive as he waited for what they were all waiting for – news.

But there was a flicker of agony behind his depth of blue, something that bit to the bone.

Across from him sits a young boy and his mother, who keeps sending them nervous glances every few minutes as if one of them might jump up at any second and wave their gun at her. Hell, McGee might if she keeps looking at him like that.

As for the rush of anger he felt, he had no explanation.

Perhaps it was best just to feel angry at _something_, to feel like there is something or someone responsible for all that had happened. Let that fire burn through his veins so that at the end of the day, when the smoke clears, he will have something left.

He has to hold on to something, because Tony is gone and Ziva is halfway out the door.

He's not angry at DiNozzo, whose absence caused a dangerous divide and left the feeling of bitterness on his tongue. Can't be angry at Tony, because in all of his feigned immaturity he would never have wanted this to happen.

He's not angry at Ziva, whose messes he had to clean up because she was too lost to do it herself. Can't be angry at her, because they are partly his fault and he has never felt closer to her in his life.

And he's not angry at Gibbs, who was equally blindsided by this whole trap and was maybe taking it harder than any of them. Can't be angry at him, because he won't show it only for their sake.

He's not even angry at Ayalon, whose bystanding bullshit was the first and last straw. Fuck him, but he's already dead and McGee is not sure he even has the energy to give into vengeance again. There are only so many times he can take that sort of pent-up emotional exhaustion.

They are all connected to each other somehow someway, and it was not something that was challenged or discussed or analyzed or pondered. It was just true, and what he felt for them was not really what he was feeling now.

No.

His fury is solely for the boy across from him who is staring at Tim like he is on the edge of losing everything, because he fears he may just be right.

As if on some sort of perfect timer, the kid peels his eyes off the NCIS agent and turns to his mother with the frown of a whisper. A little too loud.

"Do you think someone shot that lady or something?"

Maybe it's the innocent voice, or the way his hand is clutching his small broken arm as he gazes dully at his mother. Maybe it's the question, or the almost-truth behind it. Maybe the timing, maybe the unintentional insensitivity. Maybe nothing.

For whatever reason, McGee suddenly rises to his feet, slightly-narrowed eyes fixed on the kid.

Abby twitches as if she is going to reach out to him in fear of what he might do, but she stops when she realizes he has made no move at all. He is just standing and staring. The feeling is cold and raw and makes her feel empty for a moment.

And then he turns and leaves, ignoring the stares of Gibbs and Ducky as he stalks out of the waiting room, heading to nowhere in particular.

Something about that room made him not able to breathe, and the only thing he cares about now is getting some air.

The thought of walking and leaving the dull walls and buzzing people in a blur feels natural against his skin, and it is with silent relief that he steps outside and breathes in the cool air.

He leans against the wall and pulls his jacket a little tighter across his chest, crossing his arms. When he moves his foot some gravel crinkles under his shoe, and the sound and the color of the little rocks against the concrete make him think of the desert.

Dusty, empty, and burning right through him.

And what a messed up trip that had been…

Before, her death had seemed elusive. _There were no survivors_ – like she had slipped away and just ceased to exist. Nothing real, nothing explainable, nothing with responsibility. In his mind that's the way he kept it, because he never really thought about her _actual_ dying moments. And he never admitted that he didn't want to.

_I'm just glad you're alive._

Honesty at its best.

Now, there was no intangibility factor. And why did that feel so wrong?

He saw the knife pierce through her skin. He saw the blood pooling beneath her, saw the weakness of her hand as she held onto him. He saw the frantic looks of the doctors as they scrambled for a gurney and rushed her to parts unknown.

Fuck.

The proverbial ashes and dust do very little to cover up the dried blood still caked to his hands.

Maybe she was always going to leave in a body bag. Maybe they were all slaves to the same chain then. And if this was her strike three, then what did that mean for him?

He tries not to think of her bleeding out on some cold metal table. He tries not to think of her eyes glazing over as she looks around for someone who is not there. He tries not to think of the doctors pressing slabs onto her chest to shock her back to reality.

He wishes he didn't have to think about her at all, but here he is, eyes and face cold from more than the air around him.

Tony would understand.

There is something about the way the midafternoon sun hides behind the expanses of gray clouds, something about the touch of the wind against his neck, something about the elderly couple walking together on the sidewalk in the distance.

It makes him think of a different life, if he'd chosen another path.

Maybe he'd be driving his BMW to pick up his two kids from school before returning home to his wife, who truly appreciated him for being a good man. Maybe he'd be on a nice vacation to the Caribbean, sipping a margarita and making it a point to put work aside when he's with his family.

Sure they'd fight a little bit, and oh yeah some things would go wrong, but when it came down to it Timothy McGee would die a happy man because he lived a life he wanted.

But that was the difference between him and the rest of the world – this job meant that it _wasn't_ about him.

It was not even about honor, or duty, or loyalty, or sacrifice. It was not about explosions, or guns, or computers, or action. It was not about America, it was not about the Navy, and it was not about NCIS.

No.

It was about standing alone against a concrete wall, waiting, praying. Praying that all you fought for was worth something for someone else in the end.

Tony understood, he got it. He knew – they couldn't leave this shit if they tried.

With a stab of pain, his heart clenches again.

Is this what Ziva felt as that plane took off without her? _Is that what she feels now?_

And then suddenly, out of nowhere, he is burning and he feels equally suffocated outside and all he knows is that he is walking, practically running. Something stings his eyes and he doesn't think twice about it as he blows by the confused looks of the nurses and he has never hated the sterility of hospitals more.

But he is not leaving until he tells her.

He does not love her the way Tony loved her (though even now that remains mostly a mystery), but they are bound by the same things and she deserves much more than she realizes. And if she is going to die then he has to let her know she was worth it.

It is so stupid – so perfectly and beautifully stupid. And he feels like a child.

But truth?

He loves her.

And he does not want her to go.

"McGee."

The voice is rough and strong, and familiar in an inexplicably relieving way. Tim stops in his tracks, and turns around.

He isn't sure if he likes the look reflected in the eyes of his boss. Like maybe he knows exactly what he is thinking and doing. And why.

"He'd be proud of you. I don't need to tell you that."

_So then why did you?_

Well, there is still blood on his hands and his posture is a little too defensive. And there is something terribly off-color about this entire situation. Something so wrong that in the strangest way, it makes sense.

Reasons and explanations and the eternal mysteries – fuck it.

Proud.

It feels like enough.

"She's gonna make it. Doctor just told us."

He just stands awkwardly in the hallway, staring. Breathing fully for the first time in a long time. And his eyes still sting with moisture, because now it is clear:

It is definitely enough.

* * *

_So thanks for reading! Reviews are tasty. Leave them. Thanks again and happy summer!_


	17. Always

**Disclaimer:** Absolutely NCIS belongs to me. Kidding. Could you tell?

_Sorry this took so long, I mean I've just been so enthralled by the World Cup (I even had hope for USA, until they lost. Of course). Anyway, I think that after this there will be two more chapters, though that is subject to change into just one. But as of right now I think two. Okay, read on..._

* * *

The door to her apartment creaked only slightly as McGee pushed it open with his free hand, his other arm occupied with supporting the woman who was holding onto him tightly.

Too tightly for her pain-free mask to not be a lie, but he said nothing.

It had only been an hour since Ziva had been released from the hospital, and it was safe to say that even after four and a half days under constant supervision and medical care, she was not ready to be on her own yet.

Even with someone helping her every step was slow and measured, which was why McGee was here now, helping her settle back into her home - though they both knew the general emptiness of the past weeks had made the prospect less welcoming.

Neither said anything as he flicked on the lights after closing the door, eyeing her wearily as she broke away from his grip, intending to make it to her living room by herself.

It worked, but by the time she got there she was breathing a little too heavily and sat down a little too quickly onto the couch.

She looked exhausted and her mahogany eyes seemed distant, but McGee didn't really know what to say as he hovered by her kitchen, watching her.

He did not like that she was so quiet, nor did he like the discomfort behind the small smile she gave him. And did not like the flatness of his voice as he tried to pretend he didn't notice these things.

"So are you hungry? I could order something if you want," he said casually, absentmindedly glancing around her tidy kitchen to look for a takeout menu.

She just shook her politely, keeping it to herself that if she tried to eat something she would most likely vomit.

"Yeah nothing's probably open this late anyway," he amended, clearing his throat awkwardly.

Silence.

This really shouldn't be this difficult.

"Uh, should I get your bed ready?"

Another shake of the head.

"No need. I will sleep out here."

"Right. Um, pillows. That's what you need," he said with a smile, knowing he was toeing the invisible line to their game and happy to get out of that room if only for a second.

Because the ghost of all the things that should never have happened was two steps away from a breakdown, and she's barely said a word.

Her bedroom was nothing out of the ordinary, with clean brown and white linens covering the bed and simple furniture resting against the walls. There was no television on the wall and a small caliber weapon, which probably wasn't registered, was resting on the nightstand.

All in all, it was very Ziva, and it brought a sense of calm that he couldn't explain.

He stayed for only a moment before turning around with the intention of heading to the bathroom for some extra sheets, but something stopped him in his tracks and he almost jumped, breath hitched in his throat.

The owner of the bedroom was standing in his path, half-leaning against the doorframe.

"Ziva! God even when you can't walk you can still sneak up on people!" he said quickly, breathing out a laugh of relief.

She gives him a small smile and something thick hangs in the air, something that seeps to the floor and curls around his ankles before he catches it in her eye, warm and wounded.

He instantly regrets his choice of words, all too aware of the sting of the unexpected.

"That came out wrong. I just meant you sc—"

She interrupts with a frown and an assured wave of the hand, suddenly feeling as if there is more to his shame than his easy respect and thoughtfulness.

Whatever he feels she knows it is unwarranted, and perhaps that's what brought her to her position against the door in the first place.

"I only wanted to talk to you."

There is something simple and aesthetic about the way the words come easily from lips previously rendered silent by the kindness of a blade, something about the broken will reborn and released into the gaze that pierces his heart with something close to hope.

She shines in her resilience, and he almost tells her.

Almost.

The reply that comes out is pathetically subpar compared to what he feels clawing at his chest.

"Sure."

A quick smile, unique and genuine, and the first small braid of tension becomes uncoiled.

She nods, uncrossing her arms from across her chest and bringing them down, lacing a few of her fingers together as she musters what pride she has left.

She thinks nothing of courage, because here, with him, her bravery is nothing but tainted.

"I wanted to thank you," she begins, her voice unwavering and faithful to her intentions. "For saving me."

At her words and her look of sincerity he feels out of place and out of himself, undeserving and scared that she sees more than she should. His brain fumbles, and the sensation is only increased by her refusal to stop staring at him as if she knows what he is thinking.

Well, when it comes to mind-reading she rivals Gibbs, so she probably does know.

"Look Ziva I really don't think you should be thanking me or anything, I didn't even see Ayalon moving until it was too late and _Gibbs_ was the one who carried you out so…."

He stops, hesitates, hoping he hasn't said too much. Or not enough.

"Tim."

If silence is golden then the truth must be platinum.

"I owe you my life."

Her statement holds more than debts and gratitude, and it is clear from the way her mouth curves and her hands tighten together that she is speaking about more than the _could have been_ of a precariously perfect stab wound.

Tim doesn't know what to say, so he clears his throat and opts for the best choice in a myriad of cliché things to say.

"I'd do it again if you needed it."

His brow is furrowed and he shrugs his shoulders slightly, trying to lessen the tension of something so naturally serious and wondering if some of the anger and ache he had felt at the hospital the other night was still coursing through his system.

Stupid really, but he does mean it.

At his admission her chest and throat tighten up, and the weight of their flowing sincerity presses down on her as she releases a breath.

"I know having to watch my back all the time did not make Tony's death any easier for you. And for that, I am sorry."

He shakes his head, brushes her off, tries to express that it doesn't matter, and never could. Did she not understand? There was nothing to forgive.

"Ah, well, you know what Gibbs would say if he heard that," he says lightly, earning another small smile as he tries once again to break the tension with casual ease. Or not so casual. Regardless, she does chuckle a little.

"Never to apologize?"

"Sign of weakness or something like that."

Another small laugh. Maybe they were getting somewhere.

"I know, but it needed to be said."

They pause for a moment, taking in the silence, echoes of something still whispering in the space between them, neither happy nor sad. Just real, and it works.

The light from the lamp flickers for the briefest of seconds, perfect in its imperfection.

"So," begins McGee, grabbing the two pillows that were resting on the bed. "Extra sheets in the bathroom?"

She nods and moves from her position against the door to let him through, pointing to the linen cabinet to the right of the shower as he crosses the hallway.

Watches as he glides past her with a bundle of sheets in his hand and sets them up on the sofa without hesitation, watches as he smiles and cracks a dumb joke about a bedtime story before he assures himself that she has everything that she needs. Watches as his actions unfold and they both realize something has changed between them.

Still she watches with a strange glow in her heart as he makes everything okay, at least for one night.

And she thinks, wondering, almost happy.

Something has changed.

* * *

She sat with her back tense against the chair that had lent itself to her use, hands folded loosely in her lap and body facing the street, where the normal yet slightly frantic activity of a cool DC afternoon seemed even more captivating than usual.

Funny how that works.

How a three-inch blade and four days in a hospital bed made everything more real, heightened her senses until she could feel the footsteps of the crowds vibrating in her heart, could feel the touch of the passerby and the tingle of her skin as they simply made their way, going and gone. She was, truthfully, more than familiar with the feeling, since the consequences of her involuntary extended stay in the desert were not without moments like this one. Moments when even breathing seemed beautiful.

Still, this was different, and seemed more whole somehow. Because it wasn't just her life and death that was involved this time.

"Um Ziva, you in there?" asked a curiously concerned voice, quiet and warm.

Abby.

Apparently she had been talking, as would be expected. But her words had muffled together and faded out as her attention had been drawn and tuned in elsewhere, a skill Ziva had learned long ago when it came to dealing with the ever-energetic forensic scientist.

Though this was her first time out of her apartment since McGee brought her home the other night, and it brought a sense of life and freedom that made such lapses in focus acceptable. At least she hoped so.

"Sorry. I must have blanked out."

Abby smiled a little, eyes amused.

"I think you meant spaced out, but yours works too."

The Israeli nodded easily, unable to really come up with anything else. Though she felt she owed it to Abby, who was doing her best to make her friend comfortable, but Ziva found that any unnecessary movement or effort was none too kind to the sutures in her lower abdomen.

A fact she kept to herself.

"So what were you thinking about?"

Abby turned her body around as she spoke, trying to figure out if she was missing something as she observed that Ziva had absentmindedly taken to staring outside the cafe window again.

She immediately cleared her throat, bringing her eyes back to the questioning woman in front of her and taking a sip from her glass of water.

"Nothing," she said quickly, intending to brush it off but instantly changing her mind upon seeing the look on Abby's face. "Nothing important," she amended, eyes sparkling a little at an attempt to lighten the mood. "Just that it's nice to be here."

Be here, in the city, with Abby. But it sounds like be here, alive, healing. In more than ways one.

Ziva-reading did not come naturally to Abby but she was anything if not empathetic, so it went without saying that the underlying meaning was less of an underlying meaning and more of just something that was understood. Either way, Abby chose not to call her on it.

"I agree. You look like you've been shut up in your apartment too long."

Pause. Ziva raises an eyebrow with the slightest hint of a smirk, just trying to go with it.

"I mean no offense, of course you always look good, I'm just saying it must be boring. And lonely."

She shrugs, feeling something pull at her from the inside. And ignoring it.

"McGee brought me over Tony's entire movie collection," Ziva added, voice casual. Light.

Had she watched a single one? No. For no real reason, she could not bring herself to touch them. The boxes (and there were plenty) had sat perfectly in her living room, waiting to be opened but never getting the chance because the only person left to do so appreciated them for what they meant and who used to have them. And nothing else.

She also keeps it to herself that McGee brought her another box of more personally treasured items, because it just seemed natural that Ziva would be the rightful owner. And that after he left that day, as she ran her fingers over the last symbols of a man so close, she did not cry.

Because everything made sense in that moment.

_He loved you._

"Actually Ziva, that reminds me. There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

She figured as much, considering the careful consideration this little lunch date had required, but she only nodded in anticipation.

"Well, McGee was supposed to be here so we could both talk to you about it, but he got called back to work and you know how Gibbs gets about tardiness when he hasn't had his afternoon coffee and anyway...I guess it's just me. I hope that's okay?"

"Of course Abby," replied Ziva, glancing at the half-eaten plate of food to her right where McGee had been sitting and talking with them before he had to leave. But he did leave more than his share of money...

"Okay. Here it goes."

It was clear that whatever it was, some significant thought had been put into it, and it suddenly made Ziva uncomfortable, like something was itching at her skin. Should she be worried?

"I know things have been really hard on all of us since Tony was...since he died. Especially for you. And I know Vance pretty much suspended you and made you sit on the sidelines this whole time...although that...didn't really work because you're Ziva, you know?" she asks seriously, then shaking her head as she sees her friend's reaction, eyebrows raised in confusion and anticipation.

"Right. Of course you know. Uh, anyway, what I'm saying is that I know you've literally had to roll with the punches lately, and I just thought you could use a break."

Abby let out a breath as she finished, biting her lip as she gauged the effect of her words. So far, only the tiniest hint of a frown.

"You mean I would take more time off, yes?"

"No! Well yes, but not because you're not ready or anything! I just thought you might want to get away. Only for a little bit," she added, face slightly pouty as if expecting to be vehemently rejected.

"Oh. You mean a vacation."

Abby's eyes lit up, a glimmer of hope shining into brown apprehension.

"Kinda! I was thinking we could go to Stillwater and stay with Jackson. Help out in his store and stuff."

Ziva could feel the heat of her heart increasing as the thoughts started spinning in her mind, the possibility of being able to clear her head before jumping right back in to the complexities of the NCIS world so openly presenting itself.

She could pick herself up, dust herself off. It was almost intoxicating.

But then...

"We?"

"Yeah! You me and Jethro. We'll have to borrow a Charger though."

"Gibbs is coming?"

She and Abby taking vacation time was one thing, but Gibbs? Ooh, that was pushing it.

The other woman's face fell.

"I wish. I meant Jethro the dog. McGee's been too busy to take him out much, so I thought this was perfect. So what do you think?" she demanded happily, fingers drumming against her shaking leg as she leaned forward with excitement, visibly anxious. In a cheerful way.

Ziva sighed as something tugged at the corners of her mouth, knowing that while looking at her pleading friend in front of her, her mind was already made up.

"I think I would like that," she said softly, quiet but sincere.

Abby gasped, practically bouncing in her chair. She suddenly stopped as she put up a hand, face suddenly sober.

"Are you sure? Like really sure?"

Ziva hesitated for a moment, eyes radiant, wondering. This was hard enough to think about and understand, let alone explain. But she would try, for both of them. Because it meant too much.

Her voice was low and smooth as she spoke.

"I have spent my entire life, proving my loyalty to those who gave me nothing in return," she began, putting simple yet honest words to just too many years of disappointment. Too many times she hurt for someone else. "But now I know. I do not want to lie, or run, or fight. I just want to be a team again. Whatever you want me to do, I'll do it."

Abby was completely still as she finished, lips turned in a guilty frown, eyes downcast. But they were mixed with something close to relief, something that sparkled and filtered into the space between them. Something infinitely sad and impossibly true.

Did something come out wrong?

Had she upset her somehow?

Really she hadn't meant to, not really. She had only wanted her to understand that now, this is what she was. This is where it will begin and end.

She opened her mouth to apologize for saying too much, but Abby beat her to it.

"Just promise me you won't stop kicking people's asses when they deserve it," she uttered quickly, tone on the edge of playfully desperate.

Ziva laughed, open and genuine, the first real and beautiful smile she had shown in weeks. Shining, full of life.

Oh yes.

She understood, and loved her for it.

"So when do we leave?"

* * *

_Okay so that wraps that one up! Reviews are still tasty, so leave some more. Happy July everyone!_


	18. Stand

**Disclaimer: **NCIS or the like does not belong to me.

_Second to last chapter! Woo! Considering the shortness of both I could have combined the last two chapters, but I think it makes more sense the way I'm doing it. Alright then, read on my friends!_

* * *

Autumn.

She used to hate it, really. Coming from a world of expansive sand, stagnant heat, and the occasional graces of a Mediterranean coastline, it was understandable, if not justifiable. The fall, with its flip-flopping of warm and cold and ever-present taunt that soon everything will become cold and dead, was just never something she appreciated.

Not when her home, the place she had been raised in, rarely ever saw such a season.

But things change.

They do, whether naturally or not. Neither good nor bad. Just true.

Things change.

She no longer loves the sand or the heat. No longer likes the way it hangs in the air and gets under her skin and sticks to whatever surface it can find. Does not like the way that if she thinks about it (a rarity in itself), she can still taste its roughness in her mouth, still feel it chafing against her on an empty floor.

But people move on. And there it is again. Just a truth.

Whether you want it or not, things change.

She no longer calls Israel her home. She no longer hates the fall. And she no longer has Tony here with her.

So here she is, in the middle of hilly open land, hovering golden brown and red trees swaying with a breeze that flows and whispers.

A cemetery.

The symbolism of death doesn't match, because the grass is too neat and too green, the space is too open and too bright with the risen sun, and the air is too light and too sweet.

Like sand, she has tasted death, and she has never felt comfortable in cemeteries. Somehow she always felt like a traitor (she has tasted that too, but she lets the thought pass).

But she owes this to him. And herself. And everyone else because they all feel it too.

Hundreds and hundreds of grave-sites, and she has found her way to just one. She is almost surprised to see the official headstone already in place, but then again she has been distracted enough lately not to realize how much time has passed since his burial.

The stone is beautiful, a smooth blend of polished white and gray marble. No flaws in the engraving, and a crisp American flag stands in the ground next to the stone. Already there are flowers, bringing life and hope – some white lilies, some pink and red azaleas, a bouquet of black roses.

She smiles at the image. Only Abby.

The forensic scientist waits in the car, having already paid her respects and choosing to give her friend the space she needed.

Ziva brings marigolds, perfect for the season and something she thinks, idly, will go nicely with the other floral colors.

She is still staring at the headstone trying to organize her thoughts when suddenly she feels another presence, feels that tingling sensation of being watched. Someone else near her.

Turns, slowly, because she does not have the energy to make herself believe it could be a threat.

It's not.

It is only Shavit, though she is surprised to see him. Here, of all places.

When he realizes she has noticed him his expression doesn't change, but he moves away from the tree he was leaning against and approaches her smoothly, quietly. Gentle almost.

As he silently takes a place next to her she turns her gaze back to the words on the gravestone, allowing him to stand with her in comfort but not knowing, or even thinking about, what to say.

He waits a moment before speaking, but when he does, his voice is neutral and calm.

"Everyone thought you were dead you know," he says with certainty, staring more at her than at the grave. "After you left and never came back. Your father did not say otherwise."

She figured as much, but it does not sting. It doesn't matter anymore.

He receives no response, and neither are sure it warrants one.

Another moment of silence passes before he speaks again.

"I know what is in his dossier, but you know better than I do, Agent DiNozzo was a good man."

She hears his words, nods, accepting what he says without much thought.

"Ziva."

The sharpness of it instantly changes her perspective, and she turns to meet his gaze for the first time.

"I'm sorry this happened," he says earnestly, eyes flat but honest in the most basic of ways.

The apology echoes of more than the murder of her partner, and she can almost taste the sand again. Instead, she nods, voice low.

"I know."

No sarcasm, no accusation, no implications. Just a truth, like so many other things.

This time, she turns back to him before he can say anything else.

"You should get out while you still have the choice."

They both implicitly know what she is talking about, because for so long they shared a history and a lifestyle. And the consequences of both.

"Otherwise you will keep fighting until you realize you have nothing left to live for."

He clears his throat, eyes burning into hers. But something else catches her attention.

Several rows down a child chases an imaginary something around some other graves, too young and too innocently oblivious to realize the imprint of death on whoever the rest of his family is visiting.

Ziva immediately thinks of the photo, of the blue eyes of the husky, of the beautiful woman looking at her eagerly grinning son. Of the simple happiness. It's still in her jacket, and somehow its presence becomes more weighted.

Shavit finally gives her a response.

"Well then for the sake of my country I hope it never comes to that."

He would not, could not, leave Mossad.

She drops to her knees and places the flowers next to the dark roses, patting down the earth and assuring that her arrangement works. Then reaches into her pocket, feels the thin edge of the folded picture, pulls it out and smooths it against her thigh.

Now it rests against the front of the stone, barely in the shadow of the flowers and out of place in a way that makes perfect sense.

Her throat constricts and she blinks something away from her eyes, but she pushes it back down and rises to her feet, certainty to her gaze.

Closure.

She pulls her jacket tighter and turns back to Shavit, standing and watching slightly behind her.

And they both have their answer.

"So did I."

He only stares, unable to say anything back, face tightened.

"Shalom, Levi."

And she walks away, leaving him there alone. Doesn't think, doesn't wonder, just leaves. Returns to the car, smiles genuinely for Abby, tells her she is ready to go. Pulls out a map of Pennsylvania and is content to listen to her friend babble about the best way to get there.

Doesn't look back at the cemetery as they drive away. Somewhat of a symbol, but mostly just something that happens. Something true.

People move on.

* * *

_Only one more to go until completion, so stay tuned I guess! Thank you for reading and reviews welcome!_


	19. Lateralus

**Disclaimer: Does NCIS belong to me? Nay.**

_Hi everyone! LAST CHAPTER! I meant to get this out sooner, but I started a new job and goaiejgpagjsweapjwjemjga it sucks. Anyway, as I said, this is the final chapter so enjoy it for what it's worth! Thank you to everyone who showed support along the way! It feels good to complete a story :) _

* * *

It's been two days since she got back from Stillwater, eyes a little brighter, step a little looser. Ready. Okay maybe.

Sixteen days since she stood at his grave with something that tasted like solace, sixteen days since she had her last conversation with Shavit. Sixteen days since she left for both a beginning, and an end.

Nineteen days since she was released from the hospital, trying to recover from more than just a physical wound. Twenty-three days since she arrived, bleeding into and out of everything.

Twenty-four days since she stumbled around his basement, drunk and stupid. But so very honest.

Twenty-six days since she pressed a gun into her father's head, hand steady but heart shaking with the fear that everything she gave was never enough. Twenty-six days since Hadar showed up at her door confirming that her distrust was warranted.

Twenty-seven days since she skipped his funeral to track down his killer, a man hardly worthy of the rage of the lethal Ziva David. Twenty-seven days since she found out he died for simply doing his job off the clock.

Twenty-eight days since she went to his apartment, searching for anything. Everything. Just searching.

Twenty-nine days since she let someone beat the shit out of her solely because she could not do it herself. Twenty-nine days since she was practically suspended for it.

Thirty days since Gibbs dragged her away from her own vomit because she could not stand the fact that _he _was gone too.

And thirty days since Tony was murdered right in front of her.

Yet, and it certainly qualified as an epic _yet_, she was here, alive and breathing, if not healing. Here, with dull orange glow of the walls, the steady stream of ringing phones and the hush of conversing people.

Her desk remains organized except for a few loose papers, exactly the way she left when she was forced to take her leave all those days ago. Untouched, but waiting. Empty but full of something else entirely.

Somehow it feels like home.

"Morning," calls out McGee from across the bullpen, smiling briefly from behind his considerably earned position as senior field agent. She would rather, even gladly, have Tim occupy the desk then have its vacancy glaring at her everyday. It fits him, and he it.

Another thing that just feels right.

She had already seen him when they met for dinner after she and Abby returned from their trip, so their greeting is friendly but didn't hold the sort of relief and warmth that it had that weekend. Still, she is glad to see him.

And really, that's the best way to describe it. Not everything had to be so complicated, not after everything.

She nods and smiles, dropping her bag behind the desk and taking a seat. She raises an eyebrow at the other presence in the room.

Someone, an unfamiliar face, is leaning back in his chair as he sits at McGee's old desk, studiously reading over a case file. He is tall with dark features, sporting a military-style haircut and a just visible tattoo on the back of his neck as he absentmindedly spins his chair just barely from side to side.

The scene reminds her of another time, another place. Almost another world.

_Slouching provocatively. _

McGee clears his throat, turning to the other man.

"Uh, Ziva this is Special Agent Holmes, our new Probie," he says easily, an air of amusement of once again being able to dub someone else as the newbie. "And Holmes this is Special Agent Ziva David."

The man named Holmes rose from his chair and wore a small but naturally crooked smile, extending a firm hand.

"Pleasure to meet you. Someone told me you're a bit of a legend here."

She returns his little half-smile and handshake, still surprised at his presence but going along with it.

"You must be mistaking me with Gibbs."

Holmes chuckled.

"Heard that too."

She nodded and returned to her seat, taking a moment to just sit and observe in her chair, still thoroughly enjoying being back at work. Holmes was still hovering in front of her desk.

"Something I can help you with?" she asks, not entirely sincere, but not entirely biting either.

He shrugs, leaning over the edge a little bit.

"Just wondering where you got that," he says curiously but confidently, pointing to the letter opener that had been so precious to Tony. No one ever asked her if she wanted it. She just had it now. Natural almost.

Just right.

Before she got a chance to answer he brought a hand down to pick it up, but something interrupted him halfway.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," warned McGee, not taking his eyes off his computer. "She could kill you with just about anything on that desk."

Ziva smirked, eying him with feigned interest. Holmes retracted his hand, cocking an eyebrow at her.

"Something tells me you didn't learn that kind of thing from FLETC."

Already on his way to becoming a good investigator. Tim concealed a smile from behind his monitor.

"I used to be Mossad," responded Ziva, voice a little tighter than intended. Still not the best of subjects.

Holmes released a low breath that sounded something like a whistle, exchanging a non-returned glance between the other two agents.

"Damn. Used to be?"

"Yes."

He stared at her as if expecting her to continue, then frowned deeply when he realized she was just continuing her work, pen scratching away at the paperwork.

"So you would probably kick my ass if I asked you how you ended up here?"

No response.

Not because she is determined to hide it, or because it is so dark in its nature, but because her ending up here is more of a gradual chain of loss and disillusionment, and not something described by a concrete cause and effect. Lines can be traced, but in the end you realize it has been happening your entire life.

Time does not have a beginning or an end, a here or a there. It just happens.

"Right, sorry. Not my place."

True, it really isn't, at least (definitely) not yet, but he is off on the right foot if he has the decency to realize such things. And it was clear he was still very thoroughly a military man, and on Team Gibbs that had to count for something.

"Hey Holmes," called McGee, trying to loosen the stiffened moment. "Since I can see that you've diligently filled out those incident reports, why don't you get us some coffee?"

He turned, eyes calm but jaw clenched slightly. Waited for only a second before speaking.

"Look I know I'm new here but does that really make it necessary for me to be your errand boy?"

Tim grinned knowingly, features tinted with amusement as he stopped what he was doing to have his little confrontation with the newest junior field agent.

"I did it when I was a Probie."

"Well that was then. This is now. Things change."

_Well he was certainly right about that._

And she knows it without ever having to really think about it. McGee tilts his neck, considering.

"Maybe. But you still have to get the coffee."

"I got the Chinese on Friday."

"Only after I had to chase you down and tell you to do it."

"Because Abby locked me in the evidence locker. On purpose."

"I warned you."

"Plus you left me at a crime scene."

"That was Gibbs."

Holmes's eyes darkened a little bit, unimpressed.

"Of course it was."

McGee sighed.

"Alright fine, you get the coffee this one more time and we'll call it even. Truce?" he asks fairly, extending a hand over his desk to clasp with Holmes.

The other agent eyes him warily, but finally takes a step forward and returns the shake.

"Truce."

They drop their hands and Holmes returns to his desk, plopping down in his chair and booting up his computer, intending to check up on a few things before he runs out to fulfill his last duty as "errand boy".

The other two work silently on whatever is available for them to do, until suddenly the whole atmosphere shifts.

"Oh come on! Seriously?"

Holmes is glaring heatedly at McGee as he dramatically shoves his hands, whose fingers are glued viciously to the keyboard, up in the air as a challenge.

Ziva, whose head had been down as she pored over something on her desk, loudly burst out laughing and the sound is so unfamiliar and so perfectly _there_ that even Holmes, in his frustration, picks up on the value of it. Unique and true, like all the weight she does and ever has carried.

Tim just smiles into his desk, stealing only a furtive glance at the woman across the room. Plain and simple, like so many other things, it is nice to see her back like this.

When Gibbs reappears and finds his ex-liaison cracking up, his senior field agent trying to hide his smile, and the new Probie trying furiously to unstick himself from his keyboard, he hesitates for only a second before striding to his desk without a word and the tiniest of smirks.

He lets them be.

Because really, with them, in the ebb and flow of things, in the matters of faith, that is the way it always works.

It just happens.

* * *

Four days later, in the approaching dusk of a cool November night, they wait on the dusty wood of the docks.

The marina lies on an inlet a few miles west of the Washington Harbor, usually reserved for smaller boats and people that just needed a convenient space for whatever they had. Tonight, they are the only ones on the pier, appreciating the glassy depth of the Potomac and the clearish pale blue of the fading autumn sky.

Gibbs had asked her to come early in the week, and neither had said any more about it until he arrived at her apartment to pick her up less than an hour ago. And even then, they hadn't really talked much.

Though between them, silence was neither a punishment nor a crime.

His boat rests in front of them, tied to the dock but bobbing loosely on the surface of the water. In its completion it is nothing short of beautiful, with crisp white sails and glossy honey-brown stain streaked over the sanded smooth wood.

The name is painted elegantly in black on the hull of the starboard side: Caitlin.

It isn't necessarily what was expected or perfectly fitted to the timeline of things, but Gibbs had yet to coin one of his creations after her, and just as Tony and Ziva were constantly linked in life, he and Kate would be forever linked in death. Somehow, it fits.

Plus Anthony was a weak name for a boat anyway. And DiNozzo was just strange.

The man on the dock carefully steps onto the deck, not bothering to invite his companion to do the same because she follows his lead without so much as a glance of hesitation. Together, in equal silence, they set up the mini-table and their makeshift meal (takeout and their good friend Jim Beam).

Both realize the rarity of these moments of congruity, but neither acknowledges it.

Gibbs is the first to speak, mentioning something about the case they had wrapped up earlier that afternoon. After that the conversation is easy and flows freely, ranging from harmless discussion to topics of a more personal nature. Difficult as it may have been, the words that fell had no edge and no implications.

Just talking.

Somewhere in the middle Ziva mentions the very first time she met Tony, with all of his humor and his seriousness blended together in a blaze of _him_.

It is not the first time he is brought up nor will it be the last time that night. But with the low hum of riverside sounds, the sweet scent of wet wood and liquor, and the shimmer of the dull orange skyline, in that moment, it makes perfect sense.

Things change. People move on.

She understood it then, she understands it now. Doesn't think it, just feels it glittering with the waves and lingering in his gaze.

It's been thirty-four days since Tony was murdered right in front of her.

But she is Ziva David, and she is here. Alive.

Not everything is complicated and not everything is simple, but the fact remains. She is here, she is breathing. Wounded, but standing. Alive. Still here.

Infinitely, honestly, she knows.

_Home_.

Truth?

It just feels right.

* * *

_And there it is - the end! Gracias to everyone for reading! Leave a last review and be on your way! Adios!_


End file.
